I know what to say but I don’t know how to say it. Does it scare you? How many words were meant for you but never said to you?
And it’s not hard. Not all words are meant to be pretty. Yet we never cease our pacing. This pacing behind a mental wall. This wall, shimmering in the light so slightly. This wall of dust and air. This wall that is not there.
I’m sitting alone with an elbow propped against the table and my head in my hand, writing this instead of writing what needs to be written and it is so loud. I am in a library and it is so loud.
I was in such a hurry to leave I forgot my glasses so my eyes are stinging and my coffee is slowly cooling in my mug back home and my handwriting is so shaky. So shaky.
And the man beside me is wiping down the table with some kind of cloth and he’s wiping and wiping and I never knew cloth could be so loud and I want to ask if they’re paying him, if he’s the fucking Table Wiper of this library because if he is then God bless your services sir will you wipe my table next?
I know I’m pacing again I’m always pacing
He’s wiping every corner like he’s wiping fingerprints from a crime scene but the only crime I can
see hear is this noise he’s making in what’s supposed to be a QUIET SPACE and why the HELL is there a baby crying? What’s a baby doing in the library BABIES CAN’T EVEN READ. Sitting there in the backseat of the car I had a whole goddamn speech prepared for you and now all I have left is sorry.
Sorry: the only word that ever makes it to the other side of the wall with me. Sorry.
Except I don’t know if I’m sorry for me or for you or for all the pacing we do all the fucking pacing.
And if the Table Wiper isn’t sorry for wiping then the Writer isn’t sorry for swearing.