Sunday, Jan. 12, 2003, 4:31 PM

Words from the past

While organizing my apartment in the post-marriage fallout I have come across the three paper boxes full of writing from high school through most of college. When I say full I mean full. These boxes contain half-filled journal, backs of placemats from various eating establishments, napkins, legal pads, even a piece of cardboard. I used to write on anything anywhere when inspiration struck. Once I even wrote on a wall in college because there was no paper, and when I finally found a person with a piece I ran back to copy down the words. So, periodically, I have decided to interject my posting with these writings, and here is one.

This was written at 1:15AM on 9/12, I am guessing that it must have been around 1992 or 1993, since I remember distinctly the girl in question:


Back to my words. Once again I'll try to wrap them tight around my body. Let them cover me and smother these feelings of isolation. No, maybe I'd just rather have them fill in the empty spaces - like a dentist repairing a gap, just let the words fill in the hole.

And I don't need words to close the distance between us, I need only to cross the floor to where she lies outstretched and sleeping in the puddle of light cast by the room's only lamp. The light washes over her, music flows through the room and I still feel like I'm drowning by myself.

Shelter in my words, comfort in my sentences, and rapture among the pages numberless and dense, scattered round my feet. They cover me and I submit; they litter and I loiter; they flutter in the breeze and I feel my soul stir. My only ambition surfaces in the flood of paper - to write.

The ambition comes out like a bat in the cover of night - blind and hungry. Feeding off feeling in the dark and fluttering about. Voracious, bloodthirsty and small, it builds to a swarm and erupts from the opening of my subconscious. And somehow the feelings find a way through the pen and into the sweeping arcs of the words sprawling across the page, much like her body is sprawled across the floor.

I hunger for her. The touching, the intimacy, the little games and the lies. When I've satisfied my hunger I'll come back to my love. Back to the pad and pen who have just observed my carnal actions. They will speak to me through the words who are my lovers. They won't hurt, won't cheat, won't lie to me, even if they are exploring someone else's feeling. They will always be mine. Forever caressing me in the nights.

It's always been this way. Ever since my mother would read bedtime stories to me and the words would slip into my dreams. They always loved me. Those sweet sounds in my mind would follow me to the other side. And they know me better than anyone. They know me - my moods, my feelings, wants and desires. They understand my needs and fill up those gaps in my life so that my smile may be complete.

And maybe, if I believe hard enough, they will write a happy ending to all of this.


Ten years ago I wrote those lines on a yellow legal pad in pencil. I suppose some things are immutable through time.