My travel agent called. Says their offices are closing. I wasn’t home, suprisingly enough (after all, that’s where I am so much of every day now, so often), so she left a message. A forwarding address. Left me to wonder if she has an easy time making it to wherever she fares now, as I didn’t wait to hear the ending. Does she have ins with the movers, the streetlights, real estate, that whole guild? Is there a shift in the shadows now, the dusty consolidators, making last moves to get away from what remains?
For my part, I can’t even dream of staying. But there’s no way out, left, is there? The play ended, and when we went on stage to congratulate friends for their best scenes… It was the audience lights that shut off, and the real world that retreated. They welcomed us into the playlight and treated us nice as new resident players in this fantasic world of receding.
Without a script, we’ll linger here wondering how to speak.
The love interest is a neurotic line dropper who I prompt in each torturing scene. This is existential absurdist happenings theater. And I am a punk poet made for trivial comedy. In asides no one bothers with, (soliloquys, saneless), I shout ‘FIRE’ when we crowd together for cast parties and flowers tossing careless in our footsteps.
Because I cannot stop the world, it kindly stops for me. And in short, I am unhappy.
It is a mistake to express your feelings. It is a mistake to expand your horizons, when you cannot keep in your own fleeting nature of mood swings. If you need an enemy to do your worrying for you, you are not human, you are a foundling.
Liable to be picked up and worse, cared for, by the most worrying next thing.
This is but a weeping out of the dust on my own trodden floors. Worrying at the edges where the curtain hides coughs, and interrupts velvet magic opportunances. I pity myself for not being awarded a nice, final ending. I am the Lord of Death. And this dilly dallying, needs unfriending.
If my killer instinct calls, tell it I am out chasing timing.