Mar 01 2009
Wilbur’s Point
I assume that I am on the verge of something.
You called while I was waiting for you at your house, if I liked Merlot but you knew I love Pinot Noir so you sacrificed your taste and got it for me. That’s very nice.
I assume that this is either my breaking point, where I realize that I have been doing ridiculously over and over the same thing, the same thing, the same goddamn thing. Or, I am changing my life philosophy from here on out.
I’ve been thinking a lot these past few days, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed. Well, I guess you have, you’ve been asking me “are you okay? everything alright?” What do I say to that? I mean, yes.
I love the pond outback and the goose footprints in the snow. I love the cigarettes we smoke and the dead trees outside, 16 degrees and cold breath in the air. Resulting shadows. A flickering lightbulb. Cracks in the white ceilings. Paint globs and inconsistencies in the walls.
I truly love it all.
“I don’t know what I should do with my hands when I am talking to you.”
I’m listening to a band I love while I just wait for you. Something feels entirely unsettling about the entire thing. Or maybe that’s just because it’s so familiar.
But I can say that in spite of my confusion, and the things I know I am treading upon, I am happy.
I just needed to write my gratitude somewhere. Record the thoughts. It was in a verse of a poem I read to you this morning when we were waking up for the fifth time in the day: if we do not feel, then we do not think.
At least, that was Wilbur’s point.
