Composure

Tomorrow is a long way and apparently it never comes. Have I ever thought about that? I don’t think I have. And you become most aware of tomorrow once it has turned into today.  That’s when the man with the scythe will poke my spine and say, “I told you.” I will then smash him in the skeletal face with no further word. He is not my father, neither am I his daughter or disciple. I’m just obsessed with him and he exploits it – love and hate, you know.

There seem to always be someone to point his finger when you have messed something up. In the moment of a fiasco, don’t you tend to ostracize the helpers and other kind-hearted creatures whose hands are always cleaner than yours? It doesn’t matter…

When unaware that you’re in need of restraint, you’re most naïve and forgetful, and sometimes for a good reason; a good reason that unfolds to be an array of sentimentalities, but not always appropriate in regards of exposure.

What about the fact that writing is all about exposure? I remember now, F. said that once. I bumped into him the other week and I hated how I showered him with unpleasantness, like a patient who hasn’t seen his psychologist in a year. Some things should better remain untold, even in moments of desperation.

It’s only just now that I have found composure. There is a soothing sound in the word that relaxes me and I now realize that there are words, which are not worth being said out loudly, especially when they are in dispute and uncertain. There is a novelty in silence, silence is gold – it is deeply running water that will never show on the surface, as it has no reason to taint the world.

Exposure and composure have an affair and composure will impregnate exposure with metaphors that I will type down now while looking composure in the eye. My lips remain sealed.

And maybe my obsession with the man carrying the hourglass will diminish, and all these could-have-beens will disappear for good and today is all that matters. If only I could think more like that.  It shouldn’t be that hard.

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