– 3 –
Message being – she looked at me, incredulously.
– “What and/or Who – are you?” she requests.
I don’t know. No one knows, I said, half-joking, persisting, prolonging, staying alive.
Longing = staying alive. Longing = I’m still alive. And I look at her, longer. Which means: if only I knew. The interstice (according to me). We converge. A gaze. I must go.
That’s what I wanted. The choice. The decision. A godlike thing for a fragile, finite boy. The both of them: god – a fragile, finite boy.
No one owns.
When I returned, I could have said “My love, I am not present with you now. I am in a future predicted by a possible past. I am afraid. I am not here.”
She might have responded: “I see and hear and understand that you are not here with me. I too will retreat, remove, go away, until you return to me – here, to here.”
I babble on.
But I don’t say “Hello, my love. I am not present.” No, what I speak instead is a muddled report of my feelings and fears, my ideas – my present experiencing – a gummy wad of future and past, uninformed by where I am (with you) or who I am with (you) or when (now). Constructed instead by where I believe I have been (past), where I think we are heading (future), and how I feel about that (afraid).
“I’m going away now” she says. Which is not where I am. Not with me.
But I meant. I meant to say (once I figure out where I actually am): “Hello love. I am afraid. I am past and future. I am absent.”
To which she replies: “Good to know. Tell me when you arrive, here. With me.”
Here now. Or, Nietzschean-ly now/here, is that, and “exactly” : unlocatable. Nowhere. NOW + HERE…present. It can only be lived, not thought. Thought is too slow. Lags ahead, leaps behind.
Oh you, I might have said. And she may have recognized me. Perhaps. Now. Here. Presently – in the nowhere – the between – the “Interstice.” Where what occurs, occurs.
“Hello. I love you.”
– 4 –
Finite, fragile boy. The fragility and finitude are true, I suppose, but not unquestioned. However they withstand (the questioning). They withstand the questioning. Because I don’t know, and it is not wisdom, this cloud of unknowing, it is finitude, and I am fragile, not only because it’s true.
I am fragile because not all the branches hold. When climbing.
– “What is it we are speaking of?” she asks (she – the you – asks me – the I).
Past and future, I might have answered. The unknowing. But did not. Instead said – “unreliable.” Rises, passes away. Novel-to-familiar. First one thing then another, desire fades. I am not stimulus. Enough. For no reason.
You, burdened. And thus you sigh. (She sighs her burden, a question).
And I retort. “No.” Or, “don’t go.” But you might, because I have gone (or didn’t arrive, not HERE, not NOW, but somewhere else made of cobbled up pasts and unpredictable aheads).
“I love you.”
But how can that be?
It can’t. Yet it is.
I don’t know. But it is not wisdom.