Post-mortem

In a corny self-discovery essay, I read that to write effectively, one must write about what one knows. But what do I know? I know that I do not know. I even know what I do not know:

1. I do not comprehend the ways of mornings-after.

2. I am not familiar with another meaning of casual where rules are set beforehand; and reiterated (numerically) after-fact.

3. I do not know what I did wrong, or if I did anything wrong in the first place. (And "I don't mean that philosophically.")

4. I am unsure what to feel about the whole thing, how I should feel about it.

5. I do not know his last name.

Writing all that, I realize, these are what I know:

1. That I felt awkward, at the very least, the next day. And the reasons for it are light years away from the obvious ones.

2. That I worried my friends unnecessarily.

3. That sitting here now, writing (instead of being in a boring class), is running away, whatever excuses I come up with.

4. That somewhere inside me, lies a part of mself I have largely ignored in the last year, who shares this depression with me, though perhaps more profoundly.

5. That I will most probably do it again.

So in an attempt at a half-assed analysis, I am now sitting near the river, drinking coffee and trying to write. However, the atmosphere is much too light and friendly: The tourists in their shorts and tanks and slippers, moms with their strollers, and old couples leaning on their canes--or each other. No dark clouds threaten to hurry me home. The river runs along smoothly, almost... cheerfully. And on the bank are pigeons, and ducks and cranes. There are no crows in sight.

And I am wearing black today--head to foot and inside-out. I am mourning something, yet I cannot seem to apprehend it, much less comprehend its emptiness. Or perhaps this nothingness is all that I can understand of that loss--a presence now-acknowledged, now-recognized for its absence.

Across the river, a little boy is crouched, stretching his arms wide, and going low, ready to pounce. He takes three tentative steps, before breaking into a run, his arms flying like windmills. Suddenly, from behind the weeds, a flock of crows burst out---the sound of wings flapping and low-throated cries echo in the air long after they are gone.