What buried worm of guilt / Or what malignant doubt / Am I the victim of, / That you then, unabashed, / Did what I never wished, / Confessed another love; / And I, submissive, felt / Unwanted and went out? – W.H. Auden
Today is so strange … I am seeing those pink stage curtains in my mind again when I shut my eyes. And I hear her voice again, words forced from her wax lips: Anhedonia quoting Auden. My mind is tired today and aches so. I want so badly to just be in the dark, pretending I am in a tunnel no one knows about, alone in the real and true sense while everyone walks all over me on a street above. I will be with the other scavengers. I guess I am a scavenger too … scavenging for one moment, scratching away at the miles and minutes.
The curtains are drawn and swaying in our oxygen. They look expectant, like they are anticipating something remarkable any moment. But like life and love, nothing ever happens … only the threat of it.
