The other day she like, forced me into saying it. I didn’t want to do it. I was embarassed. I turned red in the face before I even knew I was embarassed, before it occurred to me altogether I was embarassed about being embarassed. They were just words. Logically contradictory. That adjective or adverb is how I felt for a period of time, a short period. The emotions of the period passed into itself, in a forced kind of way, like I said, because it was forced–she forced me to say them. But only to the point where it would be understood that she would not give it a rest until I went ahead with it and said the thing she wanted me to say. And after it was done–it felt so unusual I have no words left in my vocabulary to describe–she made me say it again, and again, and again. As you & she * I expected it would or was or should, as we expected saying the words drew less & less energy to force them out. There was less hesitation. Now don’t get me wrong: none were easy. There was just less strain. The two corners of my mouth unfurrowed from their point of misunderstanding, as it was said again & again, they turning into nervous smile, shame then hope, perhaps curosity as a constant undertone to the entire event, and I’m only guessing here (it wasn’t filmed or documented, only recollected much later inside a storm of entirely different material) but maybe the eyes had a dilated look to them with lights hitting the pupils just right to create a choice-based observation of reflection or incredible absorption (into the pupil). And the being carrying the eyes is kind of, or was–if you trust my ability to recollect, then you would just know, damn belief right we’ll save that for religion–frozen like the kind of slow motion high-emphasis moments in film, the thing we talked about it earlier remember, and this emphasis so clearly, with a choice, is to the impending moment of judgement, when I or he or she would or did finally give in to her requests to just say the words, to say them outloud: “I am a good person.” We were embarassed at first for it being so difficult. Then the embarassment for being embarassed kicked in & we knew we wocltsof iumclne otherwise perhaps a major breakdown would be seen, perhaps walls or delusions or illusions or memory would be unnecessarily nuked. If it were walls, let us go with that the metaphor is easier, then we knew quickly there was a door and all we had to do was open it. To just open it & go ahead with it and go through. There was no gvn. Just an act of will. And courage. Encouraged. “Just say it,” she said, and so we did, five or six times in all, and it like worked I think kind of.