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Recordkeeping

by Charlie Dreer
Chapter 2
I stopped writing things down
when they stopped staying put.

The notebook fills itself differently now.
Sentences loosen overnight.
Margins widen.
Ink fades without bleeding.
It isn’t erasure.
It’s indifference.

The recorder sits where I left it.
I don’t turn it on anymore.
Sound no longer feels interested
in being kept.
It moves on whether I listen or not.

I tried once more, out of habit.
Date at the top of the page.
Weather noted carefully.
Nothing unusual.
That line felt dishonest
the moment it settled.

The clocks still disagree,
but they do so consistently.
The second sunrise keeps its schedule.
Shadows behave accordingly.
There is no chaos left to capture.
Only revision.

When something happens now,
it does not announce itself.
It simply continues.
I find myself adjusting
before realizing there was something
to adjust to.

The door in the field is gone.
So is the urge to look for it.
I know where it would be
if it returned.
That knowledge feels sufficient.

At night the house makes room
without asking.
The sounds no longer stop
when I move.
They have learned my timing.

I could write this down.
I don’t.

There is no need to prove
what has already decided to remain.
The world is keeping its own notes now,
and it does not require
my handwriting.