day 326

I have more to reach, if I have more to write.
No one knows what will be the last sentence, last word, or even the last syllabus one utters.
It's too perfect, that last words on tombstones and memorabilia are long and complex sentences.
Maybe, it's just a nod, an unspoken regret, a song hummed to oneself, a sedated dream or even just Ah, Ha, Mmm...or the simple and profound bye.

Maybe, I don't need to write more. And life does the writing for me. I just read. And read.
And we go on reading, reading words dead people no longer could write.

(I don't mean to privilege writing, but speech alone reminds me of loss. I can no longer hear my grandmother speak our dialect.)

We have more to read, if he has more to write.
We always know there will be a new sentence, new words, and even quoted misquotes.
It's too imperfect, that new words replace the old ones, sometimes longer than they should; sometimes shorter than they should.
Maybe, it's a newspaper article, a passage taken out of context, a word phrase read without its pun, a translated text or an essay full of citations. He wrote, "I have more reach, if I have more to write."

Maybe, we don't need to read more. And death does the reading for us. We just live on. And live on.
And we go on caring those, past caring, who live on, making a fool of themselves.


Reaching out to someone does not require the act of writing and reading. It actually involves reaching out with your bare hands.