If he’d gone out tonight he’d have heard what he didn’t want to hear and not been able to say what he wanted. He would have spent what he didn’t want to and have nothing to show for it. Its election season on a Caribbean island and he was over the politics and wishing to be elsewhere before it all started.
It made him feel bad to decide to come home, and ironically because he felt selfish, the same thing that keeps him here, him knowing himself to be as well selfish. Such was the nature of definition, though, finite but too without substance.
So he writes, to no one, for no one but that secret lover in himself. The one who would care to hear what he has to say, to whom he was comfortable expressing anything, always there at his fingertips, who trusted him to push his buttons cause they were there for that and responded in a way that made them both feel as if they were right for each other.
He sits at his keyboard, of black and white conjuring colors beyond their polarity. Wild and rich and yet controlled…by his fingers. As his mind wondered his fingers held fast to his imaginings. Delete, backspace, cut and paste in a world of monolithic history and inescapable memories, those functions helped him function.
Caught between the two he could for the minutes that it lasted feel in control. Even as he wrote, he thought of being there, to face the impending fate that not even his challenges to fundamentalism could lead him to think would not be there: if not now then.
The same question could be asked, though, what of the night out, or the night in, pushing buttons that evoked emotions, of so many colors amidst another polarity, that of the sexes.
Regret soon sets in and its him again, caught between his history that some say is gone and memories of consequence for being selfish and he senses a tear as he sits at his keyboard unable to type another word.