I am not ethereal. Neither am I the fine dirt of the earth. I don’t have any idea where I fit. I don’t photograph myself anymore, or anything; I have nothing to show you.
I left the arcade for a professional writing job — and this is so good it’s golden — but it gives me a focus for my failure fevers. Anxiety sinks in its teeth and, for the first time, tastes the blood of fresh meat.
If I could pull this out, spin it into thread, coax a shape from the stiff, glowing fibers, then I’d have an art to share. Something to show. “Look,” I wouldn’t have to say. “This is mine. How does yours compare?”
I am happier now than I have ever been. Still, I am continually hardened. Too much of the climb, of the gruff, horned goat. When we swim, we sink too deeply.
You wouldn’t know this. You don’t know me, and I’ve never known what I do here. Bit by bit I disappear under the pressure of my own eraser.
It’s a truth we both know: with nothing to show, you won’t remember me by morning.