Ashen sunbeams find me flipping through page after page of dialogue again. Reading and re-reading a finite-- but lengthy-- collection sentences, over and over, by the dim light of a sacred flame. Trying fruitlessly-- stubbornly-- to figure out what went wrong. Where I began to come up short. When it was all lost, and gone away.
I examine my outdated evidence with Holmesian rigor. Reviewing it all, over and over, with desperate and mechanical precision. Flipping through page after ephemeral yellowed page. Scrubbing every detail. Trying to make digestible sense of the pieces. Replaying it all in my head, like a message on an antique answering machine. Tinny and memorized, hoping to unearth the one missed clue that strings everything together into cohesion.
All the while, my subconscious slaves me to a vision of internal blindness. Deafens me to the things I most need to hear: proclamations uttered months and months ago.
9:08 p.m. - 2014-12-16
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