A friend—the friend—rambles and roams enough for the both of us, but it doesn’t stop me from missing her, or from letting my mind beat against all the things I could otherwise be doing were I all those theres with her, had I not anchored myself with the intangibles of my particular psyche too long ago to remember or worry about.
Still, our lives overlap and run alongside one another at certain points and depths, geographically and otherwise. She wrote to me the other day about not being able to answer when approached with the requisite inquiry into one’s state of being: “How are you?” Now I want to be able to answer, she says. I’m just going to pick one.
It’s going onward, upward at an angle of approximately 5 degrees. Slight incline. Against a light breeze. Long way to go.
One day into something I’m unsure I’ll be able to carry off, two days after carving unsure lines into the sides of a bluff and the bluffs carving deeper, surer cuts into me, less than 90 days before my first MFA application is due and less than 365 before I become a student all over again (for pete’s sake), what I heard was this: You and I were made to go on and on, and at some point we are allowed to pick the angle at which we would like to rise.
She said it’s my turn to pick. Here it is, my dear: Straight up into that blue sky, on and on, until I run out of air, fall like the goddamn fool I’ve come to love anyway, and start digging upward again.
And happier for feeling you there, all of inches and seconds away through these miraculous typing mirror machines.