These moments pass me by with altered states of mind ranging from deep melancholy to a measured, much sought after stillness. Despite that, forty-three months have revealed that even a place such as Purgatory is not without its own seasons, and this one continues to blossom with the promise of future possibilities, even as all else will inevitably Fall during that appointed time.
I’m reminded of the chasm, of how easy it is to recount details of my life to others, aware that there’s hardly any risk in doing so since most cannot cross it into the realm of understanding, a place where I am most vulnerable. I do not begrudge them this detail… far from it; to impart understanding would invite the same discord that fills my life, but as such, the desire to delve deeper is seldom present, and I know this because that desire lingers elsewhere, somewhere is West Hollywood.
I find myself at odds with so much, and it’s not that I ever question the nature of this sacred correspondence, but such is the wondrous quality of it that I sometimes wonder whether I’m truly awake as it takes place. I’m happily mistaken more often than not, but still, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t give to have truly experienced what I did several nights past. The memory of it lingers in my mind as powerfully as that stolen, phantom kiss lingers upon my lips.
The anniversary of my descent quickly approaches, and I dwell on this as all no doubt dwell on near death experiences. I flirted with it constantly, romanced by the idea of finality and the sudden, violent end to all woes. Who was I before? What did I become after? Who am I now? What must I become in order to leave Purgatory with my head held high?
Questions that will soon need an answer as these sustaining sessions slowly segue into conversations.
She’s right as always; it is paramount that I leave in that fashion, otherwise I could hardly claim to have left at all, no matter the geographical point on the map where I might then reside.