gloom

It's morning, so it doesn't bother me as much now. But I am certain - as certain as you can be when the question is a ghost or a haunting, or some other spiritual disturbance that doesn't have a place in the ordinary tug-a-war of internal life - I am certain that what was said last night is inadequate.

I tried to parse it out in my notebook. It is not a question which bothers me. There were once words which begged to be answered, once it all rested perilously on the tip of the scales -before falling over to the other side. But the falling was utter, impressive, and certainly conclusive, and no questions remained. I would not say that all was brought to light, but I would said that everything was dragged, with certainty, into the dark.

Nor is it something I want or don't want. Once I was burning with desires - all colors of desires. "To Carthage, that city of unholy loves, I came." For me, the pears were ripe and sweet. I ate them for a long time, and went on wanting them after the summer was out and there was no fruit anywhere, but now- now I cannot bear the dry ashy pulp, now I would certainly throw them away.

At times I judge myself differently, I think perhaps it could be love which remains with me, and troubles me. I know that love remains: love is the shape of gentleness that is still there when the fires have burned out. But I do not think that love is what disturbs me.

Perhaps it's the ache of forgotten scars, that brings this sense of disturbence, perhaps it's a flinch, a dull echo of pain. But it doesn't come like pain, doesn't feel like pain, it's just like a sense of things, a heightened awareness, a gloom. It's like deep thought, that I can't quiet decipher it the terms of the more-forward thought, and I don't know if I read things that are underneath or if I'm like a broken compass, that once told mysterys and now veers crazily each direction.