I might invest in some online real estate, and try to make myself a brand. I might draw one cartoon every week, and put it online, learn to speak the language of hashtags (which I am to understand is the new language of money). I might read more. I might listen to Q on CBC radio. I might master stop therapy, once and for all, and be done with this endless swirling speculation. On the other hand, I might finally stumble upon the source of this debilitating nostalgia, and thus should continue to wallow, so that I know the feeling when I come across it in the world.
I might buy some shoes. I might lose more weight. I might fall in love again (though I don’t feel sure) I might die I might scream I might explode and send myself in increments, in particles, in bits of hair, and streaming, steaming, aerodynamic chunks of flesh rocketing up towards the sky, and in that way only be free of doubt, of speculation, of lonesomeness and loss and every petty stab of inferiority, the urge to compare, for the bits of my flesh, my blood and bones, don’t know how to wonder, how to jabber, how to send my head shaking and my fists pounding, my mouth growling, without each other to consult.
Alone they sail toward the sky and in such solitude they will not - cannot - turn to one another, frown, and say, do you think we might come crashing back toward the ground again once we cease to gain momentum?
