When sorrow is too strong and something in me swells deeper than before, when no words have ever managed to make me cry before. I am crying with tears. I am wet with sorrow and fear. How? With what words can I plunge. You must plunge, I tell myself, to be this, today. If not, who are you? So strong—perhaps you have never cried, you never cry. Feel me in my weakness, flexing every inch of my bones, wringing myself dry.

Who was it, when last night it was someone, who made me cry. Why now? The next morning, with no one around? I’ll cry tryping, now.

I feel something rising, what is it, and when it does, it is only to reach my chin, and then shirt. And my nose, it itches, is now stuffy. What of my head? inside this head, with so much, nothing as much as what can be seen in these eyes. Everyone sees what I see now. Just these tears. For as long as they appear. The power behind my ears, filling all my senses, and successfully shutting me inside them. And then what, what is it that I feel, as it rolls down my face.

When my face changes, without me.

When I don’t care, about anything but to listen loudly. Turn the music louder, make me music, and what about my tears, well, make them sing. Raising again, shivering, I am shaking and curled up. Never to be, never to have existed as I am before today—in this moment of pure surroundings. They change for no one, no one changes for them. I am mutually giving and taking, and my tears, they are only a deprivation—they only give and give—away.

But this is me, for me, to just go on.

Having gone on before.

But not without tears. Never alone, without tears. Alone in this room, except for the music. So loud I take myself to be nothing, nothing when so lost in the music. Now rising with it, as it crescendoes. Then falls like one raindrop. On a sunny day, without a cloud in sight. Having lost the feeling from whence I started, lost the courage to go on, as before. I slow. Breaking into the current of wasting time, the stream of time, of salt’n sea. My tears grope.

I am alone now. In a storyboard, next scene:

Years later
Dot dot dot.

Years later and I’m still painting. In this studio mixing paints in silence, flipping through postcards and photographs. My friends come and we talk. I admire what they do, they admire what I do, we are now forging new by-ways—we will last through all-times.

I’ve only recently opened my doors. Slowly at first, and only a notch, and for so long. How odd, no one knew me, how was someone to notice, and yet it was as if the world only needed me to drop an inch, or turn, for it to take me from the back.

Nothing happened in years. My door casually opened little by little. Imagine that, when people passed by on their way, that same door they always had—it never changed. Even when one day, after years, the door wide open, and all they saw was still the same— closed as ever, and ever, like a blinding cascade.

Next.

I am at the beach now. I am younger than before and all I can tell are that people surround me. A girl I remember kissing, walking alongside me, sitting, and reading. She’s beautiful—perhaps more than the last one—the most recent that is. If she only knew this years later. If what I told her she remembered.

And then that time. I was with a girl much younger. She was older than everyone knew, to me. And we kissed. This was only a little after the last, and so we managed. It ended in disaster, because of her friend, and me.

You can see where I am going with this.

Years Later.

I’ve caught myself looking out windows lately. Sometimes from my house, but it doesn’t matter. Either way, whether I see that little bush in my lawn or another bush from some place else—it’s all the same, perhaps that’s why I’m driving so much. To really be moving, yes—all around, to get to know things—perhaps the same things.

I wasn’t going to hint at it, but how old am I, if I can do this? Opening the blinds, seeing just a little of what is only nearest to the window and never what is behind. Behind the mirror, I mean. The window. I can’t see things like I dreamt I would, but why should I have expected that—if I couldn’t even touch an inch beyond it. If not even one color would blur around the edges.

I was never going to be this way, never let myself say the things I say. But I had no idea—like a lost chariot in heaven’s golden arch, circling. It was desperatation to see the sun, the sun, like I felt it, like all the ways I had seen it in so many other places. I was going to see it even if I were to black it out—with hypocrisy.

Not long ago one woman passed. Everything reminds me of it. Nothing was better than it.
We sat.
I said, “Oh, back home it was always second-hand what I learnt.”
She asked why just as slowly as she later walked away—just like these words-
“My mother taught me, but she never intended, these little codes. I relied upon her being there, so that as I broke the code, I was able to confirm it, by the way she messaged again.”
She wasn’t pleased, she smiled and gave her thanks, while I ate.
“No really, I just wanted to see my mother another day. Yes, that’s what I meant.”

Oh but I knew what I meant. Everything I said was apt to be confused by something else. This wasn’t something I chose, but was always, and I could see it, because of the other person. They did want another story, but not the other story I was always able to talk about. There was this story, I always wanted to hear from myself, about what it would be like to see things just as doubly as my words portrayed. Just as simply as I could mention such a beautiful day, while knowing it was only this way because a certain something loomed another way—the sun I take it, as burning beautifully. I wanted to see things as I touched them and felt them softer the more I was aware.

But to this day, the sun is not matched, no double to pass it. Yet, I have arrived willing to see the sun, and touch it like a passive blinking of my eye.

Nothing is moving—don’t tell me you can’t feel it. It’s right in back of what was last.

The One End.

In such a secretive affair I am alone, untroubled, rocking to sleep the enduring dreams. And if I have lost even what I sought, and if you were the only one willing to show me, your show is but laughter, when only it took so much less, to show. The expectancy you anticipated collapsed under the bleeting signs of tears– roaring.

These were my last words, words that only began to make them read again– Reading to understand to make sure, verify, check for errors, anything misleading—And still the question remains: “Who sent this, who wrote this.” What they really say, whenever I am away, is, “Can we trust him.” I wish they wouldn’t make it so obvious, that is, making me so sexually charged, repulsive even, sometimes. But I was dead, why do they care, if they could only read between the lines—lay out the familiar to the impossible, and compare. I was about to say it myself before they wrote back, asking, “Where are his belongings, if any?”

I chuckled, do you believe it, my face dimmed and a drip of water—tears no less—jiggled gleeful. “I cannot help in this manner,” I began, “ it is of personal worth and responsobility to whoever is concerned to undertake whatever is necessary for the retrieval of the belongings—in consideration,” and so I left it at that. I should have said more explicity, “Stop. Look, over there, no not there, stop. Yes, there. Watch me, do as I do, put your head down to the ground feel everything out—lightly at first of course—and then come back a second time with more care.” One ear to the earth, a new species, perhaps a wake of the living, in response to death. To turn back, evolve, revolve, one knee, shoulders over them, and so the race continues, again, as if.

If you would
Care to read
Me—
I am committed as

Biographer—Anti-Autobiographer— Tattle Tale

If I could be cupid
A little less clumsy
More tender than painful
My persuasion would be
An open hand, not a dart,
More rough than daring
Because I am learning
To keep a little line
Between me and you
Pressed tween your lips:

I”m thinking beautiful thoughts,
If I could only see you now-
If you are smiling-
Just between us.

-Now back to Euripedes.

As I was sharing a fine desert with my love in a local restaurant, I had purposely left one bite, that I would get to just after I got a little more water. In the meantime my love saw that I was finished, in her eyes, and decided without asking, to eat that bite. Who was I mad at, well, I don’t know, but I know I was mad. I kept to myself and waited, then ordered, “Another CREME BRULEE sir. And hurry, I can’t wait another minute. Go, go on.” I can’t tell you how the rest of the night went, but you can conjecture, yes. I believe that feeling of a cat and yarn mingling comes from this, “When saying goodbye, sometimes we really aren’t. And it is generally granted that until you say goodbye, you never said goodbye. So if you want to say goodbye, savor it like it’s your last bite, making the night climax so that when you say goodbye it is for good, and there is no turning back. Then, there is no need to begin again because everything happened that needed to, so that you can clearly see that things changed, and some things ended. And with this, I hereby christen in an open letter to the public, my return to classicism, and its justification.

Yours truly,
Anex Azander, A.A.