Tick Tock Tick Tock
...it has been over a week since last I spoke to her. The sky has remained where it should be. the sun is implacable in its travels. My lungs remain functional, one breath at a time. My heart isn't broken so much as it is bruised, deeply, the kind of bruise a baseball bat renders to bone. The kind of bruise that paints a purple madras pattern on you skin and fades, inexplicably, to yellow. The kind of bruise that is hot to the touch for weeks and even when it fades a phantom pain remain for a longtime, nerves that heal but never are truly convinced that they are.
I don't have any clocks in my apartment, the FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE, but I might as well have. The seconds march by and my mind creates its own background beat. I would say it was timed the pulse in my veins but my heart, wounded as I have mentioned, would be hard pressed to keep so reliable a rhythm. Still the ticking seems linked to the pulse and flow of the blood rushing through my eardrums, like emotional tinitinitus.
That is not to say I cannot be distracted from the beat, but even when I am with other people or my mind is otherwise occupied it is there. Like an elusive spice you cannot name in a dish you eat everyday. Then again , maybe it is the absence of that spice. I can't really say.
My old friend the road knows about this though and what solace I do find I find with her. Bending the horizon on my motorcycle, visor half open to sample the scents I pass through. The emotional metronome is stifled in the smell of eucalyptus warming in the last gasp of Indian summer, the murky tang of low tide and the comforting scent of hot tires and a hotter engine. Shifting, bending, braking. Lather, rinse, repeat. Warm compounds and physics allowing me to assume angles that my mind thinks impossible.
The ride has to come to an end though and when the engine is quit once again the ticking of cooling metal blends into that familiar rhythms. Before I am out of my gear the ghost is there again and my heart is struggling to get comfortable once again like a beaten hound in too small a bed.
Against the beat are the usual questions. What is she doing? Does she ever think of me? How could this happen? No answers come, or ever will, it is just the way of things.
The passing of a love is like the passing of a relative. There is suddenly a great hole in your life in the shape of the other person. You rage against the injustice of it all and shake your fist at god. There is no answer, there is only the beating of your heart and the passing of the days. First the yellow of the bruise will fade, then the purple. Eventually you will seem as you were before, maybe even better as you learn to armor yourself. In the end though only you will know that there are flaws in that armor and tender spots beneath them.
Tick Tock Tick Tock
I don't have any clocks in my apartment, the FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE, but I might as well have. The seconds march by and my mind creates its own background beat. I would say it was timed the pulse in my veins but my heart, wounded as I have mentioned, would be hard pressed to keep so reliable a rhythm. Still the ticking seems linked to the pulse and flow of the blood rushing through my eardrums, like emotional tinitinitus.
That is not to say I cannot be distracted from the beat, but even when I am with other people or my mind is otherwise occupied it is there. Like an elusive spice you cannot name in a dish you eat everyday. Then again , maybe it is the absence of that spice. I can't really say.
My old friend the road knows about this though and what solace I do find I find with her. Bending the horizon on my motorcycle, visor half open to sample the scents I pass through. The emotional metronome is stifled in the smell of eucalyptus warming in the last gasp of Indian summer, the murky tang of low tide and the comforting scent of hot tires and a hotter engine. Shifting, bending, braking. Lather, rinse, repeat. Warm compounds and physics allowing me to assume angles that my mind thinks impossible.
The ride has to come to an end though and when the engine is quit once again the ticking of cooling metal blends into that familiar rhythms. Before I am out of my gear the ghost is there again and my heart is struggling to get comfortable once again like a beaten hound in too small a bed.
Against the beat are the usual questions. What is she doing? Does she ever think of me? How could this happen? No answers come, or ever will, it is just the way of things.
The passing of a love is like the passing of a relative. There is suddenly a great hole in your life in the shape of the other person. You rage against the injustice of it all and shake your fist at god. There is no answer, there is only the beating of your heart and the passing of the days. First the yellow of the bruise will fade, then the purple. Eventually you will seem as you were before, maybe even better as you learn to armor yourself. In the end though only you will know that there are flaws in that armor and tender spots beneath them.
Tick Tock Tick Tock
posted by Martin "Bucky" Cameron at
8:24 AM
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