Frayed threads
The last rays of saffron still seep through my windowsills, as I sit down at my desk, weary from the many burdens the world uses to unjustly weigh down a performative male. A copy of Pynchon's Shadow Ticket rests by my side as a makeshift mousepad until tomorrow morning, at which point it transforms into an accessory placed front and center for the world to see.
A lot of my writings went through a lot of drafts, too many to the degree the final draft could have been at a 180 to my original. I'm nearly 25, and most of my writing is yet to see the light of day. I feared posterity would eat away at my writing, but it was self-censure. This is going to be a freehand edit, which serves as an ignominious mockery of myself in two ways - I do not believe I can trust myself to convey the dizzying depths of love I had never felt before for her, as well as the rather unkind light in which my earlier works are portrayed, where the soul of James Salter guided my hand as my deeply heartfelt prose papered over a lack of passion I only now know that I am capable of.
I imagine her sitting down by my side, stroking my hair as I gently type away at my keyboard, my fingers gently caressing each button as I stall before allowing my words to defile my future memories of her. Each letter I type down feels like pure filth, smearing over everything I feel for her, withering out all passion until the day my memory betrays me. My nerves electric, blood rushing through my veins, hair raised on my arms, my eyes darting to catch hers, if only for a moment, as the moonlight reflects off her hazel. The thought of it only stays for a moment, perhaps knowing that I would push it away. A familiar thread of resignation from a decade of unrequited love seems to drive my subconscious. I echo Carson McCullers in saying the heart wants what it wants.
Lil Peep blares on my speakers as I mindlessly swirl around a cup of water, caring not much if they doused the flames within. Gus speaks to me in a language few do, the mindless hedonism of the lyrics belying a raw craving for tenderness and affection. We all have our delusions, and this is one that we share.
It would be amiss not to write about my first meetings with her. We worked at the same office, and we'd have weekly standups. She spoke softly, looking down into her notebook as she meekly parroted out some lines that she'd scribbled into her book. She looked down the entire time. So me. She'd say goodbye to me as she left in the evenings. The third time I said goodbye I scared her as I'd swiveled my whole chair and waved vigorously. My manager spotted me through the glassdoor, too. Rock climbing team event the next week, which I planned on passing on, but ended up attending because I knew she'd be there. Was a bit hyper, and talked a bit much, probably made a fool of myself a couple times. I thought I'd blown it with her, I definitely did not come across as someone who had it all together or cool. We ended up walking home together that day after the event and I entertained her the whole ride, made her laugh so many times I thought we had chemistry. She told me she wasn't really doing anything the weekend, and I got her number and told her I'd take her to my favorite place in the state. We parted ways, and the high I felt later hit like crack.