Are there ways to shard, confine, carve out space for long life moments in words? I find myself longing for Berlin, the bent over bated breath, the boldness I unleashed, demanded and then payed heavily for, raw if rickety moments that looked at me longingly, those clueless Renoirs, far less beautiful in front of my eyes.
Being lost is no condition, it is a crevice--often the smallest of spaces, cast-iron quicksand or cordial cages, devoured bread paths home, rickety rabbit holes with worn, wooden shells. In the moments, months of falling, I have sought small handles, hard surfaces and bright benchmarks to elevate. What is crushed, shattered, while remarkable is not remakable and now the marked moments, measured and mounted by me alone, are pungent pieces, a whole horror of hollow dust.
Waitressing was my ammunition or distraction, at least one way away. It was no place for floods or flipping, rather a begging for my brightest persona.
Maybe it is Berlin--so swept up in its own transformation, too lost and torn, too trapped and grappling where I see, find myself. Maybe it is the raw, that while wretched, is all that has rung true. I just want to be sure again, of some large step, sweeping life movement not mime.
