22 Jun

I thought about you last night, after you left. About your habits, our
habits, and my habits. About vending, buying, selling and stealing,
borrowing, giving and sharing and losing, gaining and getting back,
forgetting and apologising, and holding on, and wanting and waiting, and
hiding and exposing, and letting go, and about not being able.

I’ve practiced deception in my time. Maybe never more than with you. I
was in love with the hyperreal. Thank you for hosting. The show was
good, really. But now I’ve seen how the trick is performed. Thank you
for sharing it. I’m glad that you did.

And yes, I know, I got carried away. This is what I do. Once the brakes
are off, I don’t know what’s next. Often it’s disastrous. So you see, I
have to be careful, more careful.

You told me I am fictional. Sometimes I agree. Sometimes I wish you were
right. My mind is a wild thing. Its territories are foreign, and I can’t
capture them. I write badly, I know. Bourgeois shit. I’ve done it since we
met. I did before, and perhaps I’ll continue.

As a coward, fearing judgment, I stopped. It was foolish, shameful, but
I need to admit it: I wanted to impress you.

So I just wanted to say now what I meant to say then – and it
came out wrong, so it didn’t make sense – what I was trying to say, was
that this wasn’t about a last chance, offered in desperation, but about
an attempt at saying goodbye.


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