Way, way underground

"You cannot truly know love until you've been cheated on," she said. Those last words came out in a whisper. He held her closer, tighter. And she continued to die.
"You think you've lost something, but you've only continued to live. You've got a few more words etched on your board. A bit more crease to your brow. And you've invited it all."

The next few moments were spent in silence. Each was alone within themselves. Sorrow coursed through his body. All the memories. The loss.

And then the crowd dispersed.

He went home that night and could not think. He could only stare at walls. Measure them visually. He sat in a chair. It was not comfortable. And he rambled to himself. Thoughts born from he knew not where. They only passed through his lips and fell quietly, dryly, to the floor.

And then came,

"I once knew a woman of extraordinary grace. And unsurpassed talent. And she loved me. And then all of this passed away. Dot, dot, hum."

It was the closest thing he could manage resembling a joke.

His mind became clearer. He remembered having tea with her for the first time. Even in his hellos he knew he would always be alone. Terrified, he did not know where to go.

And all life for a time went without mention. So we could forget impressions, circumstances and preconceptions. So that new eyes could be drawn in place of the old. So that new wisdom could be born from an old day's fright.

So that we could chart a new course. So we could CHANGE. Be different from what came before, set waves in motion that would never be slowed, never be pragmatic, never be guessed, never echo what was.

To stop the infuriating cycle of doing.

His mind felt different now. Some new thing has hatched, and he is waiting to see what it is. He sees a wing newly exposed. He stirs his finger in his drinking glass. Water clings to a finger held out. Down falls the drop. It feels the impact. The thing is alive.