when will it end? when will this all become just a memory? when will i be able and willing to function inside my head like i do, as me, as me without bomb threats and me without planes careening into space? when will my dreams return to normal? why is it that every step taken and every channel turned is connected, somehow, to all of this - to this black tuesday? nothing, not even words can break apart me from my environment and though people walk down streets as they've always walked down streets and push in lines as they've always done - somehow everyone's brain is focused in the same direction. we are ever ready for the conversation regarding it. the news stories unheard to be retold. and i am sitting in corners, trying to think about my relationship with my husband, how his memory fails him; about the novel and the fact that i've been ready for a while now; about just, our evening together; about scribble, stuck in my dream; about school starting and all that is required of that; about the coffee shop being torn down next saturday and how i must find a new place to dwell during breaks between classes, how i must convene with the others on this point; about not wanting to participate fully in the world just now. i am learning to just shut up because i don't want to talk about it anymore. i don't want to argue about it anymore. i don't want to persuade or explain or guess at the future. i don't really want to exist here now. i want to dive head-first into my dreams, etch them out on paper, live in some other life in some othertime. i want to be enveloped by books and try to concentrate my body into them; focus myself to exist seperately from my world. i want to disappear, to drown. i want to be merely myself all the time and not some concerned citizen or some liberal mouthpiece. i don't want to think about it. i want to fall fully into narcissism, to think about myself and where i am headed, what that entails. i want to focus on figuring the knots of my brain, unraveling my motivations and all of my desires. i want to find my future and perhaps try it out for a bit then change my mind. i want to fucking go somewhere. i would like very much to escape this and live fullly and freely as best as i can. i want to see the world with my own eyes and not stare forever at the new york skyline all filled up with holes. i myself am filling up with holes like sinking ships or loosening lips. i myself am, or may very well soon be, collapsing in on myself, tumbling inward; spontaneously imploding, folding like so much cloth. perhaps i am being put away somewhere, to hide me, to circumnavigate my innards and know them entirely. perhaps i am merely wishing for ends to these trains of thought, for a way to get off and find again solid ground upon which to rest my weary heart.

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