But Now Isn't Simply Now

She wakes up to the same words everyday. That same passage from A Single Man. A Single Man is a book ment to be read alone, in a solitary state. The words are as follows:
"Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefrom deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home."

"But now isn't simply now." She remembers. Tonight, she looks down at the dinner she made for herself. A frozen chicken pie which she burnt. Sitting down at the counter she feels alone. Not that she is alone by any means. Her mother is inside as well but in a different room. She wonders, then, if they should eat dinner together more. But it wouldn't work. Her fork goes in for the kill. Stabbing at its tanned body steama rises up. She sees no other alterinitive but to eat it.

Sometimes, sometimes food is good. Sometimes not. But tonight it is just there in existance. It is neither good or bad, just simply there. A part of space. She reads the same section over and over.

"But now isn’t simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until — later of sooner — perhaps — no, not perhaps — quite certainly: it will come."

And she wonders why that book was kept so close to her. Why she reads it whenever she can find the time to truly be alone. Not to say she dosn't have a social life. Most of the past time was spent with friends but that felt shallow to her. It didn't stick. She chews her food sofly and glups down the bitter lemon water. Staring at the page, unturned kept frozen there as if its something really important. A glance down at the food shows that its almost gone. Eating suddenly becomes replusive to her and she throws the rest away. She sits back down at empty plate and empty glass.

Like these things, she's become empty. "But now isn't simply now..." a few tears hit the page of her book softly. Without noise. She wish there could be scilince now. For a moment. But there is none, has been none, and never will be none. Sounds will always come threw her and brake her. She grabs her book and slips away back to the four walls of the empty feeling house she is most firmiliar with.

She lays down and remembers....
"Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefrom deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home."


"But now isn’t simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until — later of sooner — perhaps — no, not perhaps — quite certainly: it will come."