consciousness

more often than not, it is about living each day. breathing each moment, consciously, controllably. you were standing outside Memorial Hospital. on the phone. talking to someone about surviving. asking someone why doesn't she just die? heaving, uncontrollably. crying, innocently. your fingers trembling, your lips quivering, your eyes, a burnt red. she can't stand, she can't eat...she can't live like this. i slow down, and walk with heavy steps. i want to hear the rest of your telephone conversation. at the end of it, i want to walk up to you, turn around, and give you a very long hug. i want to ask you, will you tell me who is dying? how can i help you, without murder? and you will tell me, why does it matter? who are you? or may be you won't, and release a shrill, violent cry. maybe you will clutch on to my shirt collar, and dispassionate, talk about a peculiar discomfiture. ask yourself, in the name of god, or the wave of your fatalism, why did this happen to me? i do not know, and i will not have an answer. but i will wish you the best. and touch your heart, and blow at you a ribbon kiss. you will squeal out loud, it's my baby. she's three. and i will mourn the handicap. the void. the spin of your anger, disdain and antipathy. your indecision and hesitation to suffer in your admittance. it is time. to set her free. on these thoughts, you will choke on your cigarette smoke. coughing violently. half teary-eyed. and call your ex-husband. your ex-spouse. the one you hate. and say to him or to her. why the fuck do i pray?
this is the nature of tragedy, i want to say. this is the platform of human bereavement. starts with a bud, unpleasant, insignificant. and bit by bit, day by day, engulfs your mind. your belief in love. your sylvan composition, and steady composure. cracks with weight. breaks in bits. tears in strips and rips in shreds. and in the dramatics of your inward tragedy, you explode your soul. the pressure of vulnerability, occupied and laced, encroached and succumbed to the trilogy of death. frida, who died. eliot who lay. and plato's whores. it is the nature of helplessness, it is the nature of immobility. limited in enterprise and syncopated, drenched in a rhythm of modernism. in the architecture of legends, in the belief of the glass house, you live in a trapezoid. carved and etched in turquoise crystal. like the thorn petals, and paraffin, bear in your heart, the trickery of love, the pacific of art, the finesse of death. in red hills, and the eddy arts, lay to rest. the anime of sex.