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Sport 14: Autumn 1995

3. Beyond Time

3. Beyond Time

Nobody knows I am like this. If I open my mouth and let people look down my throat, they will see the black of me, they will see I have no colour and if I turn myself inside out I will completely disappear.

Inside you is colour. You have it in your voice, I think that it is red, like the bleeding of an oak tree.

Beyond time is sleep and the swollen atmosphere of Goodbye. Finality. Incoherence. The cancer is approaching its end, it crept at first, afraid page 45 someone might see it and stop it, but now it is arrogant and it runs, it stamps, it pokes out its tongue. Still it is reaching its end and it has not won and it will not win so long as the children come and go and an oak tree wears just that shade of red.

I have a photo of a friend at home, and in the background is a man sitting at a desk, leaning over, writing. He is smudged out of recognition, but I know his beard and his turquoise shirt. I don’t look at the precise focused image of my friend, but at the man, writing, the blur that is not meant to be there.

One day I will have blurred your memory until it is as blurred as your picture. Each time I think of you and dredge up an image of your face, it augments a little more. I am only allowed to remember it a certain number of times. My memory is not a film or a photo, but is elastic and changes shape every time I put it on.