A Question of Haptics

Having to do it all over again. Time spent and time wasted. We are alone together. Sharing things differently. Different emotions, different sameness of being. Wish we were closer emotionally. We see life through different lenses, through different senses. Full compatibility was never sought, but antipodes can deter. Fulfilment will have to wait, contentment inheriting the house and worn-out furniture and the bright rectangles left by freshly-gone frames on dull wallpapers.

Life is morosely hectic, frantic in its self-absorption and dim autarcy. Life could be slower that I wouldn't mind. Readiness is all, yet again. Ready to what. To jump off the sinking ship like so many proverbial rats? The ship has been taking water, has been drip-dripping, leaking patiently ever since the sails were set awaiting favourable winds.

Blurred reflection and artificial cosiness temper the excitement. A sudden chill caused by something other than the cold air.

Sleep might help soothe the discomfort. It might also bring sombre images triggered by our brains, thus increasing the sharp stabs of pain. Mektoub. But one can't resign oneself totally to an abstract estimate, can one? Accepting the idea of leaving one's fate to Amen rather than Chance pertains either to cowardice or to immorality. Even though no one should blame either. Escapism can take many forms and is the only remaining way out indeed, and the only means of going further. Like a weathervane. Escape, but once again: where?

Interest might be an apter way of putting it. The lesser of a thousand evils. Can one fight one's nature? It is mainly a question of willpower, sheer willpower bent on one purpose fit to make the acroteria of being tremble. The rest of the question must be left to Chance or to Mektoub. Opportunity left out or taken bodily. The idea of it abandoned because of convention or fear of hurting or of having to lie – one, and only one, outcome.

Trust. A gentle gesture of acknowledgement. Must this suffice. Or the hope of finding out oblivion hiding snugly in the dark of the mind, deep down where only sleep reigns. Deep down. Holding up the fort is still in my capacity, for the moment, as food is in store and as long as the morale of the troops doesn't rely on the weather forecast. Wish I knew how to find trust in sleep, other than having to learn the hard way.

Off-hand way of taking care. False impression of well-being? I'm here but I'm not. I am of no importance. Really. Could be Pete or Paul. Sense of security, of having someone by. Of owning happiness, dutifully or not, having something most people don't. Of belonging to the same happy, decorated, post-traumatic, post-orgiastic world. From now on it's everything in its right place.

Could it not be a more decent situation? I wish I weren't so prone to feel and to let myself wrap into feelings. Detached I should be, uncaring about other people, about how they feel. I should cast away the little decency that I have. One day perhaps I shall become that sort of person and believe that we can have fun, play human as if feelings were only some kind of spin-off of too much prefrontal cortical activity at some sweet hour.