A mystic in the wild (another eloge)

by Charlotte E. Wilde

In every odd moment I lack the necessary courage to love this life — three, five, seven seconds in the day of nine, eleven, one o’clock and back again.

[Our innocence would make you cry, lost thing, sorry thing,
hug your knees to your chest and be thankful.]

I want to call upon all the mysteries buried in myself, wake them like so many specters. Día de los Muertos, let’s celebrate the madness of life. One by one, masks fall down and my secrets grimace their sublime surprise at having been summoned for such public consumption, such shameless nudity of self.

[I’m looking for a cleaner language, the geography of consecutive circles that Aristotle assures must be the key to all things. Squeaky clean and soaped with the glossy bubbles of a purge, a solitary sun.]

I’m a widow of love; lost breed of unravelled entrails. ‘I love you’ is reduced to its grammatical structure, the subject subtracted and direct object of a  performance enhancing drug.

[I suppose it’s true because I’ve been biting my cheeks again, exsanguination and defenestration of the worries of calcium deposits in my head.]

Where do we get off getting off on an idea of intimacy that never existed?

Fluffy words float like clouds above the heads of so many lovers, nouns or verbs or even adjectives, invented by yours truly (mine not so truly), sloping like telephone lines between one human and the next. Silently, a lesson learnt. A sorry that must be seen to be believed and eyes closed to rationales or blinded by perspective.

 

 

 

 

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