I try to say I don’t know, but the lie catches in my throat.
The lie, always the lie.
That I don’t know exactly what I want, that I’m not this person, that something was a mistake.
…
It’s the same song.
I repeat myself, reread old words and realize I’ve said them again, and again.
It’s not quite right, it’s just words, there was this piece missing, you might get the wrong idea. That wasn’t the point, this was, it goes together like this, see?
…
Meaning.
…
It’s just words. Writing for the sake of writing, producing nothing but words.
More of the same, empty.
And this is how I stop.
…
I know what I meant.
You can change the words but you can’t change the thing that makes them. The appearance is malleable, flexible, ugly or desirable.
There are cards in a tarot deck which, from a certain point of view, represent the inevitability of fate. Stories of the tacit refusal of men to heed the wisdom of fortunes told, or those who welcome it with open arms.
The outcome is the same. What was foretold will come to pass. There’s no escaping the truth.
To know your fate is to be trapped by it. To understand your life and your choices and their consequences is to be caught by them.
To know yourself is to become yourself. To lose any hope of being someone else, any escape from it.
It’s right, because being the truth, everything would be what it is whether you knew or not.
…
I sift through the cards in my hand. Pull this one, and that one, and another.
It’s a nice exercise: a series of complex, varied images with many possible interpretations. You stare at them until you see a pattern, which doesn’t really have anything to do with the cards but rather with what you see.
I pretend like it’s a surprise when I turn them over, like this time I’ll see something different, like I don’t know what’s coming.
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