Binding Desire.

As ever, I have no knowledge of what this is, where it will be taken or why it began. It just starts, unknowingly, plotless and continues without plan. And that is how it happens. All my endings surprise me in their referencing to the opening - my unconscious desire to have a revelation. I only noticed that it seems like an authorial design when my professor wrote back saying how well I foreshadowed. I thought it bizarre - seeing how the story was autobiographical and his comment went to show how maybe, one - I - knows all along how time will turn out and/or needs all along for the future to mirror a subconscious fulfillment. Even more shocking (which isn't the right word) was his comment that the rape scene was touching, especially moving. Rape? I had never read my story that way. Did those reading my graduate application render the same reading? Was writing a way of prolonging denial, preserving a particular point of view? Lately, nothing I write seems unlike what I have written. But I think this will be the case until I write the better version to a story interacting with the same, single trope. As ambiguous as I make details, each character (in real life) sees the fiction as our account. Of course, this recognition probably prevents me from using my imagination more; a reluctance to have anyone believe I am purposefully falsifying or fabricating. I suppose what should be clear is anyone a fiction is influenced by, should perhaps prevent themselves from reading critically and find compliment in their being there, somewhere. Anyway, don't we all hope to be remembered?

Silence could be the most deafening song. It is possible, yes, just as silence is the most intimidating partner ever to be placed in the mind. When together we exist, I try to survive. Myself: be I and not become overpowered by speechlessness. I try to talk always to me. I always try speaking on behalf of myself. Swallowing words without time for memory—my moments—to be properly digested. This is all I fear.

Lying on that bed, he may have seen me finding pleasure in rest. Appreciating the softness of his sheets. Another skin against my body. Denying darkness the chance to disfigure subtle shadows shown by my nakedness, I made myself look comfortable, like I needed to be there. And maybe I did, perhaps I do. He stared, investing himself. Admiring the image of sleep. The image of belonging to him. During those hours. At a time never in time. He blushed, as I never believed he would.

And he’d never like to believe I wasn’t sleeping; behind veiled eyes I was awake, considering who I was to be there, what that said about you, and meant about us—then or sometime ever. Of course, yes, all states other than the one I am always in are concerns of my mind. The future. Will you matter? Would you be willing? He blushed. I know this not because I saw such change, but rather felt it. I did. Him too. The third time. Lying on that bed, I already knew I’d come to romanticize it; the place between ideal and actuality, not where one sleeps but where two try to touch their dreams—see if what is separately thought is mutually true. I have come, we are here, and I know our reason but not what I feel about it.

“I wish—“
“I didn’t mean to wake—“
“You didn’t. I wish you’d tell me how I am to you.”
“Me too, but honest, you’re the writer.”
“Try.”
“I wish.”