2001-05-20 - 2:30 p.m.

I keep hoping for a worst-case scenario. A picture, however roughly-defined, of some last scene. An injection of drama.

My thoughts come to me before disappearing. But I am not wise enough. I do not know how to seize, how to grasp. I am not firm.

Why do I love you? Why do I want you near to me? Why am I so destined to incompletion? Why can I only dream of holding your hand - or subtly caressing you with closed eyes. I shall only ever appear at my own funeral. Mine will be a protest in descent.

I am divided. I can be practical and I can be romantic. No, Romantic. And in the French...Roman. A story already written. Is this me? How far can anyone reach back and see? How derivative am I? From whence did I come?

My problem is identity. I have not begun to live in the affirmative. Words are not enough for me. I have to speak with the eyes. I have to motion with hands. I was cut off from words a while ago, and I cannot retrace my path.

I cannot convey simple emotion. I cannot pick up a phone, dial, and say what I know is within me.

I love you, I love you. But what can my words possibly mean? And if I do not have a definitive answer, how will I ever be able to put you away?

When will I begin to live?

troilus

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