A Day

From the Abigail DuPont historical archives.  I asked her the simple question, "What's your story?"  This is the reply I received.  This was a long time ago.  Just short of forever.  Substantially more than a while ago.  Do you remember those days?

You were still fucking that one chick.  That first chick in the series of unsuitable companions you sought out.  Or, to be gender neutral - that one guy.  That first guy in the series of losers who took advantage of you and used you as a sex object.

The second person form of writing is under-rated.  It's the only way I know of to heap abuse and scorn on my readers.

From: Abigail DuPont
To: Stephen Thornhill
Subject: What's my story 

The waning of moods is a strange thing. To start a day in serenity, quickly diminishing to a livid disposition of utter abhorrence for my own species, to then dive into an abyss of melancholy for the continuing daylight hours, only to find myself lying on the lawn beneath the stars, laughing as cars passes by. 

A day. 

I wake into a blissful half sleep, my attentions yet unwavering from the soft images persisting from my dreams - and for a short point in the day, I exist in ideal serenity. Beside me my allegiant companion, a cat. He is still sleeping, where he remains until I begin the ritual of leaving - where upon he sits on the sink and watches me brush me teeth. 

I look over the rooftops from the bath window, observe squirrels balancing along the power-lines and bantam clouds resting on the skyline. 

A day, comprised of invasive interactions and compulsory admonitions of human invalidity. Closing the window, I position my intangible bequest of splendor within a quieter part of my mind, descend the stairs, and make for the door. 

An articulation of a day, the waning of moods - more plentiful in the dead of winter, as the cold alone exposes any misconstrued ideologies associated with its striking and exquisite landscape, upon stepping out the door. And retrospect sets in. 

Fall exposes the individual as well, but in a rather ruthless manner. The fall assaults the senses with an isolating cold akin to winter, then pulls you out to be revealed beneath her lavish colors, for the sake of seizing a transitory warm day. We are forced to see the peak of fruition before death, and to appreciate an intensity that exists on the brink of a gray and lifeless obscurity. 

The conscious or unconscious understanding of this apogee drives me out of doors, if for nothing more than to stare at a damn tree, to watch a handful of leaves fall. I know the leaves will continue to fall in my sleep, and when I wake, my handful of leaves is buried beneath the multitude lane to rest by a brisk gloaming breeze. No sooner will I step outside to see the naked limbs, stark against gray for what seems an unbounded and sleepy winter. 

-a