I write to right the write-less, the unvoiced compendium of my experience. A
panoply of shadows between each line and behind the fumbled words miswritten
out of loyalty to the fiction I maintain. The letters which move beneath the page,
scintillating with suggestion, leaving their impression - a glimmer here, an echo
there; they are more honest than the fraught narrative that I deem fit to 'save'. I
write to right the write-less, to balance the unwieldy, to illuminate the intangible.
‘Every act of reading is an act of forgetting: the experience of reading is a palimpsest, in which each text partially covers those that came before.’ - James A. Secord, Victorian Sensation: The Extraordinary Publication, Reception, and Secret Authorship of Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation
Last night I slipped into a nightmare you and I were deep into a game of Madden when my player fumbled the ball and my emotions overtook me as the controller flew from my hands breaking on the unforgiving tiles.
You looked at me incredulously your disappointment apparent I fumbled for the words to call a timeout as I could feel control over my image loosening and falling with your respect onto the turf where everyone feels free to pile on.
Unwilling to fumble any more moments I texted you when I woke up fumbling for the right words to tell you I love you and you called me a ****** as the phone fumbled from my hands.
The golden sun Sets on the oceanic view Kissing the traveler That fumbled his way through the soft sand. The traveler mourned for the touch of his spouses warm embrace But all he could do was watch her From his unearthly plane