When I’m at ease, I’m galloping away, eating daisies, not even knowing I’m “running away.”
When I’m trying to be purposeful, I bite the skin off my heart and squeeze the breath out of my lungs, — I think of all the things that are not treading lightly. Do all the Edith Piaf temperaments; running off in between the shelves in the library to dry-sob my head against the books, and even then I dare to think: Am I being Sarah Bernhardt — even if just to my own mind— or is this real? Is anything I’m feeling real? How can I justify myself feeling if I do not know?
Then I breathe in, and am quickly stolen away into a page about “a boy who had no other interest but to read newspaper bits and save these newpaper bits of information in his head. For example, he knew that a drunken man in Japan was called a Tiger, and that there were over 150 Tiger stations for drunks to recoup—”
Then I walk back, and sit down, and am almost convinced, that this time, I will feel normal.
Then I don’t do anything, because I want to run away. Just for a second, just for a grain of sand down the bottom half of the glass.
Then I’m deciding, with composed composure, to go to the bathroom — I’m sashaying down the aisle, my hair is gently swishing back and forth with my step, I’m imagining it most very, very slightly, such a small note of composed grace and composure to complete this image of sanity — and cry as much I can. I am almost happy for myself that I’ve decided to dedicate such an activity for myself. I’m almost slightly radiant as I get to the bathroom door. I can’t wait.
I push the door, in I go. I look at my face, and I take in one large breath, like the one-fell swoop of a swan’s dive, and sob. My first sob, and I inhale, and swan-dive again.
There’s an abrupt knock on the door. I look at it in disbelief.
I freeze, I can’t believe my ejaculating is stymied.
The door is opened by the clerk.
I turn away abruptly,
"Yes, I’ll be out in a minute."
I just quickly take a piss with that one minute, because I know I’ve got to just because, and then just march out.
There’s no way anything useful will ever, ever get done.