1:35am
dream of train, beach, sand, and J______. the train is moving; the train is time. i step out on one edge of the platform and take a picture. i take pictures from all angles. N_____ is there; she is J______'s best friend. i take various photos from various angles.
as i walk down the platform i age. i take pictures, trying to remember all the things that were. i catch glimpses of J______
in the passing train. i cannot believe it is her. i take pictures, wondering if she will be there when i get back, wondering if
she has forgiven me.
eventually we are face to face. i begin sobbing, not knowing if we will speak, not knowing if i will live long enough to explain and make it all up to her – not knowing if she will listen.
in the back of my mind, i start writing the story both ways, so that art will be made if she listens, art will be made if she doesn't listen. this creative force – this manipulation – pulls me from the experience, pries me from the dream until i wake in bed, half-panting and wondering what just happened.
will i ever be able to write this book and give form to the things i feel and felt and explain it into being? am i lazy or just too afraid to try? how will i know if i don't give myself the time to finish?
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