are they really true?

She has no red coat. and she received no letter of such kind. and yet they make me think of that tale. she doesn’t flip the pans any more, or all the other invisible chores she managed. it’s like those days never existed, she feels, and to be frank, the sensation seems to be expanding. I’ve forgotten a lot of tastes, familiar sounds, oh-those plates clattering against each othee, specific orders, lay-outs. i fear there are no more secret places, but one-her heart. but he’s changed over these few weeks?-not so much, not so little. he wakes up at a shift of slides, at a rustling of a sheet. he sat thru that movie, tranquilly on his chair. he caresses and rubs and tries to talk. he does his daily duty, he’s company and crane. yet mayb not all that much, but enough for what he is. he waits as before, making chit-chat easily and for this he is spared. (then, the younger “she” thinks: most of the time I can’t stand seeing them touch her. It hurts my skin, my senses, it stings my eyes and so-called kindness. and I’m afraid it’s all in vain. we stand in pricks, not substances, take heed! and desist with all this useless torture!)

and then…a man is dying of that worst of things, after having given no signs about it. so swift and merciless is the icy touch. she talks normally, his wife. must be something true about that feeling of relief. but he is scared, as so many others. all that gnawing on the inside, which u can’t possibly picture and worst of all that globe of hope, of an intrinsically-crafted philosopher’s stone.

and then…a man is still travelling with his wife’s handicap pass, him as the assistant, but….she’s been dead for 6 months. Alzheimer. lost her twice, poor bastard but cared for the other 60 months.

then I was left standing in the street, feeling pathetic, for all that means. lonesome…set aside cuz…not much actually. lots of missed infos cuz…dunno, all sorts of wacky ideas. guess we can’t help being swept away by the changing wave, at least not while we don’t swim in the same fashion. splinters all around me, it’s getting harder and harder to paste them together. and I’m no better.

it ain’t cool…but it is what it is. it’s nothing. it’s been said. and the deed almost does not exist. cuz it just didn’t matter. others did. hope this brain will keep. scripts are just scripts we invent. weren’t we supposed to do that for our reality as well?