Constantly the ever-so-slight tremble in my chest, like a heatwave gone wrong, like the old apartment where the subway trains rattled the floor and I get no reprieve. The snow thaws, the urbanites scurry around various temples of consumism to get all their Things, to amass so much stress under their belt that they can expel it all on Christmas morning in a spew of family arguments and disappointments. He stands in my doorway and says Maybe I'll go, maybe soon, I have no answers, I've always liked London, and I adore the shy smile on his face.
His stories read like Alice in Wonderland for adults; I find comfort in recognition, gratitude that someone has put words to the mad universes I try so hard to keep at bay. The old homemaker's guide from before the Great Wars declares that while marriage is truly a wondrous things, those inclined to madness do best to stay away. Being mentally unsound does not lend itself to a life of joyous matrimony. The v button on my keyboard is dull, I have to pound furiously on my computer to complete sentences. I cannot sleep.
My muscles and sinew change shape, my words recreate themselves. I hear another voice, another person, molded to her surroundings. I know this is the thrill of the move, the reinvention, the jig-saw puzzle made to fit.
I suppose I just thought one day the puzzle would turn out to be my own.
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