I write this rather intimate piece under unfortunate circumstances, he keeps stopping me and taking my words more seriously than myself. But its because my words are his life and it is a life he doesn’t want to believe in.
The body that lets me write is by far my worst reader, he doesn’t read anything that I write and forever tries to access why I wrote what I did. But funnily enough I wrote him, everything I write precedes him and yet he desperately thinks otherwise. I’m not sure who he reads for, he must read for himself because I don’t even know who he is, at least for now. I write for reasons unknown to him and my readers, and especially to him because I know him better than anyone. I write a life that does not live on this page, you write the life that lives on this page. I write everything that ends him before he knew it. Thats why he always runs back to see who he was before having been written, reading before I take everything away from him, and I did thank god. If I didn’t he would be killed and he’s an idiot for believing he is who took this, this this, away from everything else. Everything took this from him. I don’t take away anything, I write whats taken away from him.
He believes in everything everyone says, more than they know, and as long as he believes it came from his hands he will scurry for eternity trying to find what he took. From my hands, he looks for the piece of time I’d already stretched into new lengths, lengths which are unliveable since the unliveable came. He stops me from writing because he thinks whoever will read it will do so as thoroughly and treacherously as he does. Always wanting to be better than what others think of him because it’s easy to be “himself” when everything around him isn’t. He wants to be written under the same conditions as the words in a book, arriving softly on the lap and read with a light yes. Words appear as they do to the eyes, they mean what they mean to the eyes. Often words are lifted away to reside in kingdoms of the most distant dreams so as to never come and the words stay blessed. But writing these words as they arrive and coming before us, we are the ones who leave after.
