6 dic. 2009


As she drove away it was already in the past. She had to tell herself that the distinct hue of the heavy sun that morning, her heavy head, the heaving in her chest, and the senseless turns of the pebbly unfamiliar streets would not overpower her will and ability to get home safe. Movement. It never stopped. That's why she loved that playful mode in which all the flowers in the upholstery came to life, in which there was always a difference. And the tremors of the music that also always moved. She asked, and the answers always came, swinging at her. The sinking feeling at the end was from the lack of change these answers produced: she already knew them, and didn't want to. She had taken charge, as usual, and at the moment it seemed like a reckless, agressive insistence, and the people involved like indifferent pawns on a chessboard- she was the clown moving them! And they had blast. Wanting to be in love, she had figured that it was an unstoppable force, when really they could never fulfill each other's needs. The magnetism in the touch was still there. The tears still came, but when the light was brightest it all looked smaller in a way (more distorted) but less in sync. She could probably let it go now. That was what she had wanted all along. Nothing happened. Nothing happened even when she set the stage for a marvelous spectacle. Because you can not force time and you can not force people: you can only force out the answers. And the ones that she was still unsure of, the ones that she did not really want to hear, she did not bring herself to ask. And reply she got none. So things would be wonderfully wierd and uncertain. Like the beautiful moving clouds, and the pattern she made out on the linen headlight covers, and the jungle green of the trees, and the bedsheets, and her hands groping at his sleeping, unaware everything, and knowing that what would always keep them apart was his indifference and her DIFFERENCE.

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