I must have known you were writing, as I woke in agitation nights ago with the urge to check the site. I wondered in my half-awake state if you had found another Narcissus to whom to write. Some lyrics to a recent song I admire go: I should have told you this world is not my own. Because this is more of the truth, probably, than you wish to know. You have been walking among the dead for a long time, before even you lost your father, and that is because some people just enter this world oddly afflicted with straddling dimensions, and they strive to fit in, to be normal, to appear like everyone else. Drugs help. I think you were straddling the half living from the beginning, being blessed with some innate sense that this was not all there was to this world, and so perhaps that is why the ones you love are the disappeared--not because you made them disappear, but possibly because life's infinite mystery knew you to be capable of loving beyond living, of seeing love beyond flesh.
You come to me in my dreams, you sneak in to everyone's, and you will love and feel half here and half there because parts of you are owned by legitimate lovers who are not seen. And you will question when he is not near because that is what we do. I do it every day, and even today, as I held my beautiful man in my arms we drifted so far away in our minds from one another...I came back first and asked, what are you thinking. He said, about the car insurance. He felt bad until I told him I was imagining the technique one employs for layering hair. All the while, right there. If we can be in one another's arms and far away, in one another's dreams, and miles apart, why can't love weave in and out of the living and the dead.
You don't have to know the answers. They are known, somewhere, but we will never be able to interpret the language they are written in. My new proverb: don't ask, sing. don't answer, dance.
