by Matthew Kenneth Kosak
Another Christmas passes, and it leaves me, in its wake, feeling as though I were a ghost in all of it. I can feel its vacancies, its vagrancies like a season changing, a coldness settling in on top of coldness, on top of itself. The strangeness of being here, but not being here, the transparency, in the unrequited tendencies, the bitter sweet favors of this season, not mine, but others’.
Noble lone wolf. Am I doomed to wander these halls, perhaps for the foreseeable future? This is where fiction and reality become muddled. They blur together like the grey fog that inches and creeps forth into the grounds from the marsh on cold winter nights.
I visit amongst them like Christmas Future.
The reality, navigated here, (if there is one) is the skill in maintaining the illusion. Am I that different from the rest?
I recall the party earlier that evening. The banker, sympathetic in the warm light of assured earnings, preserved sweets of the land. That ripen at the touch. The other assorted careerists. Like an assortment of chocolates, some coconut some are caramel, in their neat boxes. All have their place. We bumped around clumsily, my drink and I, uttering strategic platitudes- but we couldn’t find our place amongst them.
And it is your fault! Unheeding, stubbornly, that rumbling they warned you of. Now becoming the stern look on a face you recall in school- was there a glint of sardonic lighting in her smile? You’ve taken a turn, and here you are…
This writer, this Über creator and leader of minutiae, the bits that will march forth into the proud anarchical cacophony and beat these nebulized incognita into some order. Some semblance of the proper order of things in the mind, so will be done, and will they come? Of course they will! There is no choice we leave to a character. He must appear. (And be judged).
And in the story I conjured, the one that followed me that night like a lost dog, I was blamed for all of the bad, the waste, the scarcity, the jilted, tête-à-tête (the woman I should have met, but didn’t,) the lost home, we’d lost a home too? Of course, and all wreckage strewn along some unseen path I’d never measured up to, and tried, in vain, to turn into something good. Or at least to salvage.
It is at some level what comes down to what the pen writes, the lines are all that remain after everything is reduced. All the bullshit and half-truths drift away, evaporate into thin air. It is motive, choice in the elemental firm.
I did not stay here. I wrote it. that’s what I wrote. That was true.