Fragments of Delirium
* Dedicated to the youngest of the Endless,
who was once called Delight
A city is never one city but a haphazard
collection of many cities, each with their own This part, for instance- red brick buildings,
imposing architecture, a page from a different decade. And a road full of
yellow taxis- bulky and bright and defiantly old-fashioned. And for the tiniest
slice of time, the city is a stranger. The clouds gather.
~
Say thank you. Be polite. Smile. Or type
a colon and close a bracket on the secret. Make cheerful plans. It is easy to
hide if you know the words, or the signs, to prepare a face to meet the faces
that you meet[i]…
The windows are shut. What of the weather?
~
And cold iron chains my dreaming soul
and bars the door to faerie…
~
Sometimes reading is like an inevitable
goodbye, for you know the story must end somewhere. Or stop, at any rate. And
you want to cling on to it, knowing that your life have changed irrevocably
forever by these hosts of imaginary people and that you can never, ever go back
to the way things were. But the pages are turned by a power no longer yours and
suddenly you’re reading back-covers and biographies and then there is nothing
to read at all and nowhere else is as wonderful and moving and you can only
find another world, or create your own. If you can. And so it rains, or maybe
not.
~
What is the weight of emptiness? Just
enough to crush your heart and freeze your tears and choke your breath.
~
Some mornings you remember your dreams,
but they vanish into a world of fog if you look too close. Some mornings you
feel them slipping like sand through your fingers. But most mornings, you don’t
remember at all. And out of nowhere comes the echo of a memory- a day or a week
or a month later- a hint of a blurring colour or a dissolving shape or a fading
song and of things you can’t name because you don’t remember. Not really. You
only remember that you’ve forgotten and you wonder if it truly was a dream, or
your mind thinking that it was. And you wonder why, if your mind wants to give
you a message, it wipes it all away. And you wonder if there are two minds at
war- one trying to remember, the other obliterating everything and you wonder
what else this other mind can do. And you think maybe one day you’ll go mad.
Then you’ll know. And the rain, my dear is entirely in your head.
~
That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.[ii]
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