Writing Rockville
Our life was not supposed to be such a movie, not the kind that it turned into. It started off as a light romantic comedy, but toward the end it had crossed over pretty cleanly into a surreal hallucinatory film based on the theories of Lacan. But there were some good moments. Everything has ups and downs, and beginnings and ends. The beginning of this was spectacular, and the middle was perfectly coordinated to convince us both that we could rest now, that the dangerous part of the trip was well over, and this was the moment that we took a vacation to Rockville. The hotel we had was perfectly organized, and had layers of charm and elegance that were worth writing home about.
In fact, writing was exactly what caused the end to come too quickly. I would like this to be a story of how, like when a man loves a woman, her illness gets revealed in the second act, and then it’s about how I deal with it, and try to save her, and then learn that I can’t save her. Because she must learn how to save herself. And we would overcome our troubles and walk into the sunset, or maybe into the fog, depending on the time of year. Some sunsets there were better than others, is all I’m going to say. The town looked beautiful, charming, and interesting. It would have been nice to have explored it a little.
When we arrived, however, we saw that there were some postcards in the room. I decided I would write to my family back home. It seemed like a sweet gesture. Some people have it, and some people don’t, and apparently I’m in the category that does have it. When I sat down to write the first one, it felt fine. But so fine. Enough that I thought I should write my brother. And then my best friend. Some people can’t stop writing because they have a lot to say, because they love to write. Some people can’t because they just can’t . It’s a disorder, for sure. We left and I had to get to a stationery place, but there was only the gift shop, so I stopped there for 10 more and we went to get a coffee, and I wrote the whole time, and even bought their cards. By the end of that night, I had 150 done and the same amount to go. Long story short, she left, and I’m still here, still writing . You might be getting a postcard soon.
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