XVII. [excursus]

A brief excursus:

Sometimes when I'm writing these words—more than words, really: a re-telling; new acts to new scenes—they become so unfamiliar that the only way for me to acclimatize myself with them is to ignore them; to dissociate them as words entirely, and make them symbols—a new language altogether; some ancient text you've never seen; maybe a language used in some foreign land, on some foreign continent, now long-lost & buried beneath the ocean. But that never works. These words will always be the same; they will forever mean the same thing—whether it be as a whole or as a thousand separate entities—broken down further to letters & numbers, in turn broken down to fractions of coordinates, x's & y's, dots collective, and ultimately meaningless. Could that be what this all really is? Do I really have the time to elaborate upon these philosophick musings? I should go back, but I'm afraid of that hole. It bothers me; trepidates me; pre-dates me?, maybe its been here all this time—I just never noticed it. I'm paranoid. That's fiction. This is all fiction. I've fallen asleep at the wheel, on my way home from a hard day's night, to my loving wife, awake & alive again, for the first time, free of any confusion, free of a message from the hospital. But none of that's true either. This is all fiction. This is all plagiarism. Someone else is writing these words—these x's & y's—for me, through me, vicariously, licentiously going in & out of my mind through the occipital fracture, all from the crash I never had. But if I never had it, what am I writing about?—well, not me: you, whoever you are, living through me.

When did all of this begin? When did all of this go wrong?

It could've been just about any time. Hours ago. Days ago. Weeks ago. Some other fictional amount. What do I know? I can't even remember the name of my neighbor. It's such a mess; I don't have time for this—I don't know how to determine my time anyway: the clock's been spinning on ends, irreverently, without rhyme or reason, for hours now—or maybe just seconds: hours on the clock?, or hours in perception? What is an hour?, anyway. It's neither yours nor mine, that's for certain, so it's not ours, but hours, an empty glass—our glass?—or was it hers when she left?, and when was that?, it could've been just about any time—anyone's time. But not hours.

It's not the most difficult thing, to write. I don't regularly anymore—it's been ages—but I still know how. With too much time on your hands—whosever time it is—you have little to do but wait. Even now, though I should be doing something about this—traversing holes; getting escape—I just sit, on the couch, the bed, the floor, against the bookshelf, against the door, waiting for the door to come crashing down. It's not even my door any longer: Not sure whose it is now, but it can't be mine—it's a stranger's, someone who's seeking me, sought me forever.

Whoever seeks me, finds me. Whoever finds me, knows me. Whoever knows me, loves me. Whoever loves me, I love too. Whoever I love, I kill.

Where did I hear that before? I don't know anymore.—some things don't make any sense to me these days. That's to be expected, right? Is that agreeable?, is that even a part of this? No. I can't agree with that. It could be just about anything—maybe the re-telling of a different story altogether. This isn't what it should be; not even what it's supposed to be: It's just a story, right?, a tall-tale?, a lie? Is it?