I write this week for iO:
It’s been three years since you’ve been gone. That thought still derails my thoughts, decoupling them from their direction, remembering just how tentative everything really is. I wonder how much of this is just an illusion, a whisper thin mirror with a hairline waiting to shatter, showing us all what really is.
At times I feel like i have it in my grasp, things make sense. Words and voices glow, while others everything is as dislliusoning an empty cabinet that still reeks of vinegar.
I return to that texting thread, the one where you never answered, where I may as well been shouting into the ground. I don’t know if you ever even read my words, and yet I return to that thread still, still hoping you might hear me.