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  . .   . . .    . .    . .    . .
 .   .   .   .  .   .  .   .  .   .                 "Lament B"
 .   .   .   .  .   .  .   .  .   .
  . . .  .   .   . . .  . . .  . . .                 by Effy


  . . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

        There was nothing more comfortable, nor more amusing, than sleeping 
 with a down bed spread and pillows.  I smiled as I watched you.  Peace 
 resting on your eyelids, the stray feather in your disheveled hair... I 
 wanted you to smile back at me again, without the influence of duplication, 
 worn edges, or misery burdened by sentiment.  Last night, my dreams mocked 
 my reasons, throwing trash into my bed; and the voice that spoke to me?  
 Thick with sarcasm, thin with sincerity.  Seemed to think it was almost 
 ridiculous that I was still hanging on.

        I put your picture down.  We're not quite so warm anymore; it's
 getting cold again.  The trees are again being painted with a brush of
 season's cold-blooded hand.  Season has found his reds, browns, oranges, and
 blacks.  Season is painting everything a deep, melancholy color.  Season is
 giving me reminders of memories to come back, tenfold.

	When does the revelation come?  You don't have to wipe your own tears
 if you only cry in the shower.  In fact, you don't have to dry your own
 tears if you never cry at all.  A woman was concerned about me; she inquired
 to know why I had been consistently lethargic and unhappy for months.  She
 may as well have snapped her fingers and said hocus pocus, because I had no
 time to find a shower or sink or even a bucket of piss to dunk my head in.
 I cried.  I half-cried.  And when I finally got out of there, I let myself
 cry for nothing other than the sake of release.  I know that if I can
 continue this, in the end it might be worth it, if I find the outcome I
 seek.  If not... what then?  How much time will I waste in the "best" time
 of my life?  Will there be a best time, and has there been?  Agonized
 thoughts that I am embarassed to think are gathering, like clouds, blotting
 out who I used to be.

	So much of me understands how you must feel.  But there is a small
 fraction missing here; and it is this that I am most afraid of.  Is this
 fraction for real, and if so, is it temporary, or is it growing?  Do you
 even know?  Do you understand that I don't think you love me as much as I
 think you do?  Do you know that it's not your fault, except for the fact
 that you created it out of necessity?  I wish you would tell me what you
 know, because after eons of speculation, I still feel like I know nothing.
 It's as if my mind is a swamp, and I'm too disgusted by my surroundings to
 move, even if the quicksand would let me keep from sinking for half a
 second.

	Drugs have had a way of speaking to me of the worst things possible,
 at the most inconvenient times.  There was a point when I realized I hadn't 
 thought, spoken, acted, or worked with a clear head in ages.  This 
 realization, up till now, has induced no change in myself however.  But I 
 have to change.  I want to change.  I need to change, for my sake, for 
 yours, and for the sake of those around me that seem to be slipping through 
 my fingers due to my own apathy.  I don't like who I've become.  I like who
 I was, and where is she?  I have this deep, probably irrational but
 nevertheless possible fear that she's not gone, but buried so deep in the
 mud that I am going to have to dig my own grave to find her, if she's even
 there.  She was always one for challenges, though.

	Maybe we've still got that left.

  . . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
                                                                             
  .           anada 187                       by Effy  (c)2000 anada e'zine .
      
  . . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
