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sadoeuphemistThe truth, to get to the heart of the matter, is boring. Saying what I think and feel is the dullest thing in the world, it's a reiteration of my own circumstances, as if I'm in my head staring out of my eyeballs and dutifully taking note of what is going on around me. In order to communicate - in order to produce anything, even marginalia that goes unseen by anyone - I need a hook. I need the structure of artifice.
For example: I dreamed about M again last night. Her mouth on my mouth, the curve of it sympathetic, the cushioned contact between our bodies. But what would be the point of returning to it, of describing it to anyone, even if just to myself? I could lay out events in sequence, I could chronologue our history. I could give that all-important context. But there's no context to be had. I reread some of my old diary entries again the other day, and the self that wrote those entries is a foreign entity, another person, who couldn't have predicted that years and years from then they'd wake up, dreaming. I hadn't thought of her in years, honestly. I just dreamt about her again last night, that's all.
Even back then there was the distinction between what I did when I was with her, and what I wanted to do, the distinction between reality and fantasy. What we did was utterly mundane, the sort of stuff you've surely experienced yourself and promptly forgotten about, because your brain needed the room to store more important memories. "I met her at the mall." How fascinating. I could dig up old chat logs and shudder at the inanity.
Meanwhile, there was the impulse I could extrapolate outwards, the recurring themes I'd retread and wear thin. The push and pull of the tides, their regularity and inevitability. That clockwork structure of desire that was made to seem like it was counting down to something but would just go 'round and 'round forever. The distinction between everything that was going on inside my head, and everything we did together. You appreciate the difference, right? The fantasy was fine, albeit repetitive. The reality was the dullest thing on earth.
Even now, to speak of her in dreams, I could psychoanalyze, I could slot her into an archetype. I could say, I dreamed of happiness, or, I dreamed of comfort, or, I dreamed of being loved, as if that's all she was and that's all she represented. As if I was happy, or comforted, or loved back then, and this is all a throwback to a world that once existed. I could say I'm miserable, or frustrated, or alone, as if there's a solid justification for my dreams and desires, as if she's part of my story, genuinely, and this all comes together by the end.
That's the artifice in it, you know? She was a real person, but you wouldn't know it by me talking about her.
I could say I fantasized about killing her. That's not true, I never did, but wouldn't that be interesting? Wouldn't that be the big reveal that finally sheds light on the whole situation? Just a single lie, and suddenly we're hinting at meaning, as if everything that happened last night and all those years ago somehow makes sense.
I dreamt about M again last night, and I woke up and didn't feel anything. That's the gist of the story. That's the truth of it.
For example: I dreamed about M again last night. Her mouth on my mouth, the curve of it sympathetic, the cushioned contact between our bodies. But what would be the point of returning to it, of describing it to anyone, even if just to myself? I could lay out events in sequence, I could chronologue our history. I could give that all-important context. But there's no context to be had. I reread some of my old diary entries again the other day, and the self that wrote those entries is a foreign entity, another person, who couldn't have predicted that years and years from then they'd wake up, dreaming. I hadn't thought of her in years, honestly. I just dreamt about her again last night, that's all.
Even back then there was the distinction between what I did when I was with her, and what I wanted to do, the distinction between reality and fantasy. What we did was utterly mundane, the sort of stuff you've surely experienced yourself and promptly forgotten about, because your brain needed the room to store more important memories. "I met her at the mall." How fascinating. I could dig up old chat logs and shudder at the inanity.
Meanwhile, there was the impulse I could extrapolate outwards, the recurring themes I'd retread and wear thin. The push and pull of the tides, their regularity and inevitability. That clockwork structure of desire that was made to seem like it was counting down to something but would just go 'round and 'round forever. The distinction between everything that was going on inside my head, and everything we did together. You appreciate the difference, right? The fantasy was fine, albeit repetitive. The reality was the dullest thing on earth.
Even now, to speak of her in dreams, I could psychoanalyze, I could slot her into an archetype. I could say, I dreamed of happiness, or, I dreamed of comfort, or, I dreamed of being loved, as if that's all she was and that's all she represented. As if I was happy, or comforted, or loved back then, and this is all a throwback to a world that once existed. I could say I'm miserable, or frustrated, or alone, as if there's a solid justification for my dreams and desires, as if she's part of my story, genuinely, and this all comes together by the end.
That's the artifice in it, you know? She was a real person, but you wouldn't know it by me talking about her.
I could say I fantasized about killing her. That's not true, I never did, but wouldn't that be interesting? Wouldn't that be the big reveal that finally sheds light on the whole situation? Just a single lie, and suddenly we're hinting at meaning, as if everything that happened last night and all those years ago somehow makes sense.
I dreamt about M again last night, and I woke up and didn't feel anything. That's the gist of the story. That's the truth of it.
