Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Don’t you think I want love? Don’t you believe I would stop failing and navigate the edge of this high climb if I could? Instead, it’s the darting look this way and that, too fearful for the next reach up and too goddamn weak to just let go. Stay and suffer. Live and murder the chance of normalcy. What a magnificent limbo, back breaking? Yes. But not that variety. Purgatory. Ever threatening, like teeth gnashed, but never biting. Constant fear pervading like the stink of rotten milk, a vignette in the pinhole view of tenderness that’s good enough for you, but not me. Not me with my treacherously high standards and disdain for the milquetoast huff and puff of dull passions. What a bore! And yet the grasp on this goddamn ledge persists, hands cramping now, soul wearying and eyes burning from sleepless nights of treasonous calculation. An empty side of the bed sighs like a death rattle, an epitaph written in the wrinkle of sheets and I can feel the ghosts of past lovers, smell their sweat and hear their jagged soughing in the twilight hours that bathe less in starshine but drown in humid lonely. Because solitude isn’t cold, it’s thick and hot, summer restlessness at the end of Spring, coated in the fine yellow pollen of rebirth. So don’t tell me to hang on again. Just stop, okay? I have to sneeze and break this valiant attempt at affection; an incidental convulsion that’ll send my limbs curling inward, my head jerking forward while my body thrusts away from you and plummets, not into love, but away from love. Into open chance. Into that new far from this will-killing precipice that screamed at us over and over to simply tighten our grip until we realized we were murdering each other; asphyxiating whatever happiness could have been had by reaching the top together. Braving the winds together. Just being together. I’ll flail instead, thanks. Take the fall. Every good story needs a villain and I don’t want anyone to go home bored.  (at Now Now)

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