The Prelude

Oh this Diet Coke is really good, though come to think of it it tastes like nothing plus the idea of chocolate, or an acquaintance of chocolate speaking fondly of certain times it and chocolate had spoken of nothing, or nothing remembering a field in which it once ate the most wondrous sandwich of ham and rustic chambered cheese yet still wished for a piece of chocolate before the lone walk back through the corn then the darkening forest to the disappointing village and its super creepy bed and breakfast. With secret despair I returned to the city. Something seemed to be waiting for me. Maybe the “chosen guide” Wordsworth wrote he would even were it “nothing better than a wandering cloud” have followed which of course to me and everyone sounds amazing. All I follow is my own desire, sometimes to feel, sometimes to be at least a little more than intermittently at ease with being loved. I am never at ease. Not with hours I can read or walk and look at the brightly colored houses filled with lives, not with night when I lie on my back and listen, not with the hallway, definitely not with baseball, definitely not with time. Poor Coleridge, son of a Vicar and a lake, he could not feel the energy. No present joy, no cheerful confidence, just love of friends and the wind taking his arrow away. Come to the edge the edge beckoned softly. Take this cup full of darkness and stay as long as you want and maybe a little longer.