She was born to watch –
and she did.
And she watched everything they did.
And the colours were grand.
And the beauty around,
and the sound of laughter as it
tinkled a keyboard, like musical brooks
of wavering skies, brought her home
to that place that was good.
And he was tired of sadness, and he
was tired of badness, and he was
tired of madness, almost exclusively
riven and ridden through
There’s never a single solution to
anything; what’s more, there’s
never a single cause.
And so in the absence of a grander
explanation, they decided to call a kind of
truce: a trueness of truce, not to
truss up like Russell, a close friend of
theirs who studied in high place with
dog of strange yapping.
And he was tired of trying to work out the
world. And he wanted that beauty
where the contemplation of another
was enough to enjoy the way
of his being: and he realised right now
that the example she’d once given –
as joyful in public as any kind of
lady waiting on marriage vows,
and bands of sweet reality – was an
example he’d helped to rub out.
It wasn’t all his fault, but a part of it
was: and his inability to act on his knowledge
meant that he was to be widely
considered a half to blame
for not having the courage to decide for the best
of everyone concerned; of everyone there.
For as man of the house it was his job to
see and carry the weight of the life
they were leading.
In the end she saw everything, and again
practically nothing. And he saw nothing and
And between the two of them they’d be
losing almost all they’d ever had together.
And this wasn’t love, and they needed some
help. And he wanted some help for them both.
But she saw the colours, and the beautiful
world that swirled like a girl in the bloom of
her youth … and so what could he say but agree with
every word? He was a man of hopeless means,
whereas she deserved the earth.
He was so sad.
He was so bad.
He was so mad he even now believed that the world
which had driven him to paranoia and despair wasn’t
outside his homestead but within:
that all this time, he had thought it was the outer world
which had pursued him with fierce anger
when in reality it was that world he had
kept by his side.
This madness of his began to grow too:
where envy required one to covet another’s stuff,
he suspected that more than envy, it was a jealousy of
three parts: that maybe the person
he’d treasured all his life had actually been the
driver of most everything which destroyed.
Clasped in awful embrace of dependence, then,
he needed no lover now of decade-long existence,
but much more importantly
some way of breaking free and recovering that
world he might once have enjoyed where envy
remained in consumer domain
and jealousy of his being no longer could exist.
* Jealousy versus envy – a useful definition: