I look at my coffee. I want to see through it…
Where did that come from? Part of something written so long ago now. So much longer than 12 years and yet 12 years is something bouncing around in my head next to a poem fragment much older than that. I want to say adieu. I want to say ciao. I want to say sayonara. I want to say goodbye. Yet these things, they bounce and bound and bash about in my brain like the ums and ahs of a conversation hog, leaving no room for anything else.
Why am I punishing myself? Why am I watching the tv with the wrong aspect ratio? Is it to make my stomach churn in rhythm with my head? Usually I am a bottle of wine down before I take aim at myself with such carelessness. Note that carelessness is not the same thing as carefree. Loading the gun with hatred and all the meaness that only someone who knows you so very well can aim with.
You know that feeling when your blood pressure drops through the floor and every so often you find yourself shortly thereafter lying on the floor? Well that’s actually a gift, called foresight. Knowing, before falling, that the fall is coming. It should be like that for everything but it isn’t.
I drink it black, in the hope that one day, I’ll see through it.