"Have you been able to find anyone you can connect with since you moved back?"
I'm sorry, it's like I can barely understand the question. She's in the same room, but it's almost like hearing a choppy radio frequency or a quiet television program in a foreign language. It's hard to comprehend. Hard to think about it, hard to respond.
"What steps do you think you could take to try and better yourself and your situation?"
I curl my fingers and toes, extend them back out, repeat. I roll my head around, stretch my arms and legs, bend over to touch my toes. The parts are holding up decently. I could get a lot more service out of this machine, potentially. But it hasn't been re-calibrated in a long time.
"What do you want to do?"
Survive? Stay true to myself? If fantasy means just as much as reality, and I choose to believe that it does, then that's where I'll keep my dreams. Somewhere they're safe.
"I love you. I want to help you."
She reaches me. But nothing can be done. If I don't try, it'll never be worth it, the longing will never go away. If I do try, it'll never be enough. How do I know when to be satisfied? How do I force myself to be grateful, to be humble? Where's that middle ground between the mindless surrender and the mindless pursuit?
"I miss you."
Oh I still want the best that I can get. I miss you too. But it's hard to play the song. My voice remains steady. But the piano is underwater. The drums are all spread out, too far away from one another. The guitar is down to one string, barely hanging on.
July, 2011