I replay deaths that preceded my life over and over again,
like I’m watching for quarterback mistakes. I live in Monday mornings. I am
louder than a referee.
Names and dates ebb, barely touching the shore where the
reasons lie dry and futile in the sun. Plath in ‘63. Sexton in ’74. Details cling to me and
bloom like barnacles, waiting for Virginia Woolf, in some form or another, to
pass by.
We’re all trying for her in our digital streams of
consciousness, struggling to traverse the distance separating wine from
moonshine.
We are a million Mrs. Dalloways, deciding to buy the flowers
ourselves.
“So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all
that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can
say. ”
--A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf
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