Tuesday, January 25, 2005

untold tales

I heard a story the other night, underground, with a drink in my hand. A woman's voice, disembodied because of the crowd between us. "This is a story I have been waiting my whole life to tell." The rest was lost on me, this great melancholy without direction. But it brought reason to me that I had never written the most painful moments down for anyone else. All the stories I simply would not tell. You think you can gather all the pieces for the perfect picture. You rarely notice the missing. You think my life is abstract and accept it like any other good piece of fiction. The people you love become convinced of a truth created by conjurations of a well-armored mind.

Sometimes you sit and wonder at night, while looking at the theatre sign's lights stretching up to the Oakland sky, if anyone can truly know any one.

I do not come unhinged in despair. I feel grief for the living and cannot recall having felt it before. Perhaps because I did not think I would have enough left, once I was through with the dead. But the dead have gone and I need offer them nothing now. The shame lies in what the living have wasted. That the shadows loom so long that we grow unaccustomed to light.

There are no happy endings for untold tales.

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