Dear old story fragments,
We must stop meeting like this, with you as snippets I stumble across as I’m hunting something else. Did I deliberately abandon you there, tucked between pages of half-read books as deliberately as a wailing-wall prayer, or could it not be helped, as I incised you, Voynich vines of marginalia right on the page, flagging something that intrigued so many moons ago.
Meeting up again is like encountering the twin that died in the womb. You are not who I once was–you reveal a self I do not ever remember being.
What was I thinking? How do I recreate the synaptic flow behind, “The river itself was asking.”
Or, in a fast scrawl more like carving C-R-O- on a tree than starting a story: “Tuesday. The gods came back on a Tuesday.”
Or the far more developed “We took off our watches and threw them in the abyss. It didn’t stop time, c’mon, we weren’t crazy. But we did it anyway, Neville, Kate and I, slipping off our watches and pitching then down to darkness. Not looking at each other as we did. Not needing to.”
I have no recollection of writing you but the way the shaky handwriting slopes precipitously upwards, ignoring the lines, means I wrote you late past midnight, without turning on the light. So much for pen and paper on the bedside; I need Dragon Dictation for Dreams.
Nah, I wouldn’t buy it. Because then I wouldn’t have you, dear Fragments, pen-pals from my past. And maybe, perhaps, signposts to a future lying in some other notebook. I’ll find you some day—after the present has been forgotten with the same surety that allows us to forge into the future in the first place.