meander

you write indirectly, choosing oblique angles to capture that event, which seems to sink in just now. you do this not only for the beauty of a broken narrative, but a testament to your cowardice to be blatant.

or probably, you are still trying to grapple a perspective, if not the truth, either of which remains elusive up to now. or to segregate the tangled details to suit your understanding. either way, you collect the pieces as you tell the tale to a friend, tolerating incoherence and inaccurate explanations, as this is the only way for you to gauge if you're nearer or father from a past you are trying to relive and forget at the same time.

as he listens attentively, you tell him that the mistake was yours, as if you believe that it is a mistake in the first place. but isn't it? to finally close in on someone now becoming a referent of many things -- songs, images, thoughts beneath thoughts.

i imagine a hand unburdened of a heavy stone, now lost and fumbling amidst lightness. i look at my hand, and i see a lousy metaphor that pleaded to be written. and somewhere within the preceding sentences, the past and the present ramble into each other's path, like one sea wave to another, converging, departing but not enough to separate itself from the other, like this post to its blurry origin, both of them ending without beginning.