This river is my holy ghost, this red trail that leads in drips and smears from me to you across the sheets. We are enclosed.
I spent today finding a gift for Dylan, who turns three tomorrow. The son of a ghost, I wanted to find something sweet. The perfect soft toy to be carried lovingly around for the next seven years. I believe I succeeded, I found a bear who passed my every conceivable cuddle test and a child size hand-puppet of a fox, though I must also admit that I have done the dreadful deed of purchasing something for myself as well, which is something I consider tantamount to sin these days and vaguely unforgivable. A hand puppet of a soft white fluffy rabbit in a hat.
It’s fun. I was both delighting and terrifying small children, I practically refused to take it off my hand walking around streets and stores, waving a little paw to almost everyone walking by, those who did not glare at me. I think I’m going to bring him to work, try to find out his name. He’s pretty.
In spite of that, I am not well enough to be up this late. I feel too raw to try to talk to the world. I need consolation and I’m not going to find it here before I go to sleep, nor tomorrow, likely. Tuesday, I have to wait until Tuesday, and that’s a maybe. Dying to hold on, it is like my skin has been taken off and packed in someone’s bag before they walked away. It is like a monastery falling and being trapped in the rubble. Of course it’s fine, fine like grit between my softest teeth. Truth and truth again, more of my year of ruination wrapping, up, finding its feet. We are vile in our perfection, me and this feeling. There is nowhere left to pray.
Bombs dropped, the last city has blazed and I am left blind.