The Revisionist

As I prepare to write, my mind goes blank. It always does whenever I try to concretize my thoughts. I stand perched, my arms supported by the open windowsill. My eyes glaze over and I casually glance at the trees, the houses — the mountains across the bay in all their speckled glory.

It is the middle of May and there is still snow covering the mountains. What was once all encompassing has now worn thin, like the wax shell of a lozenge after you’ve suckled it a while; you trace the lozenge with your tongue — spots of uncovered soil rasping at it.

«I’m still here,» it whispers.

I take another drag of a Marlboro light, I look at the strip of paper covering the border between tobacco and filter. It tastes different. Sometimes different isn’t what it should be.

Devoid of thought I am reduced to a numb fingernail; throbbing.

Sunday, 21. May, 2006 · &