Jul 11, 2009

(vignette 1)

He is lying on his bed with the cell phone next to him. It rings a final time. He knows she will call again. And he will continue avoiding her. He sits up and looks at the pile of paper on his desk. His room is cluttered with books and clothes. And paper. Lots of paper. The deadline for the next issue is in a few days and he has not been able to focus. He told the editor he would get the piece in last minute. He walks over and sits at his desk. Stares at the computer screen, at her email from last night: I’m going to hurt myself. He gets up and walks over to his bed. Takes the phone and shuts it off. Then he realizes how hungry he is, and makes his way to the kitchen to get some food.


I have felt darkness. It burned my skin, melting flesh and muscle, charring my bones through. I dissolved into myself, like lava. I flowed thick. Over my bed, unto the floor, into every crevice of this old place. I flowed down the stairs and out the front door. Unto pavement and down the street. Across town. To find you.


In this love you are like a knife with which I explore myself.
Kafka (letter to Milena Jesenska, 14 September, 1920)


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