this is the feeling of having so much to say and having no one you’d want to say anything to
this is the feeling of having so much to say and having no one you’d want to say anything to
went to church today for the first time in a long time, and i got to hang out with people i have known for ages and haven’t seen in forever. each time i go the circle gets smaller until it is just the square of us, and eventually, i think, it will dwindle down to just me, solo, pacing up and down concrete trying to kill time, and maybe i’ll spend one too many minutes staring into the mirror in the second floor bathroom, methodically twisting and untwisting locks between my fingers, just because i can, and just because the air didn’t feel tired enough to walk in suitably late.
today i realised that things change without me ever taking notice, people are other people the next time i see them. such is the nature of life by virtue of it going on, and if life has to move on then who am i, to stay the same. i have changed beyond recognition to some but i still remember the unwillingness to meet your eyes and the desperation to return to solitude where no one could, can, ever touch me. being untouchable is being perfect, and to me a perfect way of being.
looking at you the way you are now i can’t tell if this melancholy hints at a sense of loss, but what did i ever have in you to lose? and so i’ll chalk it up to nostalgia for a different age… a darker age…
you speak the same but you think completely different things now and i don’t care much if not for the fact that this means that i too must be a ghost of the person i once was. but she was miserable a lot. these days i am… so close to the person i’ve always wanted to be. all because life went on.
we were young and we were pretty much okay, but does it really matter?
i don’t miss any of the things we used to be
i have to disappear for a while, only because i know that if i exist here then i cannot exist in real life the way i need to.
the more time i spend writing on this blog the more of a parody of myself i become.
Why do we wonder at the dire evolution of love? Are we not the orchestrators of the degradation; the masterminds behind the dissolution of marriages, friendships and quiet companionships? We are always seeking to be philosophers, doling out dollops of our opinions where they do not belong. We criticise and calculate and marvel at the audacity of the slipping state human relationships. The intended altruistic nature now has erosion as a metaphor and murder as its friend.
I feel like I’m just floating through different streams of consciousness. Occasionally, I see glimpses of me fighting for the chance to discover the ‘more’ in ‘more to life than this’; a hastened step towards the pavement as I spy a speed demon carelessly racing round the corner, or a dismissal of the unwelcome thoughts the ghosts cruelly and methodically slot into my mind over and over again. I beg of these fleeting moments to be a representation of my life, an indication that there is a part of me that wants to have the time and energy to explore what this place has to offer. The mind is, in my opinion, the prison of any body, although it is often disputed that the heart is what truly retains all our past hurts, in turn causing us to hold on to the disarmingly painful memories of mistakes and miscommunication.
this may rhyme, sometimes
now you’re back in my life
do you come with a how-to-handle guide?
new and improved, like on television
I arm myself with ammunition
do you return with an instruction manual?
which weapons should I learn to assemble?
I am quite afraid of being afraid
quite frightened of mistakes I will make
I shall stop by the bookstore
the one we spent hours in but do not know the name of
perhaps I will retrieve a story
to, like ‘anesthesia’, is it?, numb me
local, regional or general? what of it?
the first two sound positively specific
‘general’, on the other hand, appears more promising
like Motors, or a soldier, or something in the kitchen
when I am rendered unaware, perhaps then
my welcome will be more of what is expected from a friend
but to me, that is something you will never be
no matter how hard ‘general’ tries to convince me
there is a distance I know to much of
more than just train rides, satellites and air hostesses
it is the vagueness of what is between us
the unclear markings of
what we were and
a constant reminder that
I loved you first
Story of my life, and we both live on beet farms too.
