Frustration

Here. Here is where I want it. Like this. And then here. And then everywhere. Slowly, slowly, each to its time. But first, right now, right here.

I know this curve, this arc of stretching need. I know what happens, and how, and when. I do, and I am done.

And so: Now. Here. And yes, here.

I know the shape, the motion, the words. But there is something else. I listen intently, and watch, and try to understand. As always, I strain with the effort.

Here, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Well, no, maybe not. Something’s not right. Maybe here? No. Maybe here, then? Or is it…?

The effort of trying exhausts me, but I must understand, I must. The why of it. The why not of it.

I don’t know now. Was it like this…or like this? Was it here… or here?

The feeling of the doing. The doing crushed beneath the weight of something else. Memories? Expectations? This instant has got to be now!

Here — there — where — I don’t know anymore, I just don’t!

It isn’t now.

It’s lost.

Over.

Over.

Why are you looking at me like that?

I knew this would happen.

So did I.

I knew you’d do this.

I did what I always do. But then, so did you.

What you always do: hold up your magnifier and burn off the moment.

For me, not for you.

For me as well. Your scrutiny is like the sun in the desert: a merciless glare.

Oh really? Shall I tell you about you?

Now it’s gone.

Shall I tell you? Do you want to hear?

One irretrievable moment: gone.

You don’t, do you? No, of course, you wouldn’t.

And not the only one gone.

I’m tired, very tired.

Others will follow. The procession is endless.

Even my eyes ache. Even my fingertips.

And I am part of that procession.

And I want to go to sleep.