What I Don't Know...

I meant to write again today but time got away from me. Another few grains of sand, lost.

I was thinking earlier, about the things people don't know about one another; the gaps in our narratives; the incomplete pictures we must have of those we hold dear, and the quiet struggles that take place behind closed doors; in the solitary confines of our skulls. There is an agonizing anonymity to these widowed moments, and an alienation, accompanied only by the inevitable confrontation of our fears. We dance with the doomed, dreadful intimacy of a moonlit knife fight; sharp pieces of silver shiver and sparkle and dive and dart, emerging and departing into dark inky pockets, stabbing madly at the dark.

We can busy ourselves and ignore the battle, pretend we cannot hear the clinking and clashing of metal, the quick grunts and jabs cutting the air, and with mendacious lips we could float ourselves a flowery line; from the glib tributaries of our aortas, we could tell ourselves a half-hearted truth.

It's fine - everything will be okay.

We can dismiss what we know, to distance it from ourselves, so it can't hurt us.

Right?

The supreme idiocy of old idioms.