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Am I afraid? No, I am not. I am only trying to be. I am trying to feel this wave of destruction coming towards me — but then I won’t be able to feel it until it actually gets here. So I am not afraid. I am just wondering… What is the meaning of all this? What is the meaning of my being exposed to it? What is the meaning of my awareness of this exposedness? How many times will I wonder if staying put was really the right thing to do? I could have panicked. I could have run. I could have written someone’s speeches. I could have composed a sad song. I could have withered away without reason. Instead, I have chosen to continue saying how much I am sorry for all the wrongs that I can’t right, for all the songs that I can’t sing, for all the wasted beauty that I have failed to make mine. It wasn’t a hard choice. It was, in fact, not much of a choice at all. It was only long after the choice was made that I became fully aware of all the other options that I had. In other words, I have few regrets. But I still wonder… What made me aware of the choice? For what purpose? Is it something scary? Some kind of impenetrable force that I should fear and admire? I am afraid that, whatever it is, the confirmation of it will come at the same time as the destruction, and it will be too late. I will have believed in guilt. I will have believed in artistic power — and I will have no choice but to believe in its annihilation. Am I afraid? No, I cannot be. I can only imagine fear as it creeps up on me — ever so close, ever so faint. I am too tired to go crazy. It takes a lot of effort to be ripe for the ultimate breakdown. My madness will, like the rest, stay forever stuck in the embryonic stage — but abortion would be too risky. Instead, I continue carrying the slightest load with me, inside me. I share its benign forms with friends. I don’t need enemies for the fight. I am standing on the edge of the ocean, and I’ll know when it’s coming. I am just trying to feel it. |