They said:
"If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything, at all." And yet, I only ever had nice things to say (so I thought) and you wanted silence. I can't help but recognize the best in everybody. Under the impression that everyone wanted affirmation of achievements - No matter how small. Evidenced by lack of ego, it seemed necessary to remind you (whenever possible) just how much you can do; have done. How can I resist when your hair falls madly on your shoulders? Or when the sun illuminates the freckles in your eyes? Skin on skin on sand on skin: No doubt left in my mind that as it rained through the waves, I was in the presence of something; of you. Though your smile could sink ships, you lamented the look of your thighs that day: Only stupid thing I've ever heard you say. Someone told me after: "I expected nothing less from her." Effortless. As usual. You are still so unaware of the qualities you possess - You can not accept a simple compliment. Brush it off. I like the way you speak. I like your hair. I like you. Shit.
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My laugh is grating,
shrill, vexatious. What a shame that I should find everything in life SO SO SO hilarious. It spurts past my lips as gracefully as a boiling k e t t l e or the braying of a stubborn mule. I should hope to someday outgrow it. Like pants so easily replaced when they are ripped at the seams from someone's bottom growing ever so large. If I should be so lucky. Until then, a vow of silence? Solitary confinement, perhaps? Just the thought is making my lips curl skywards and my eyelids crinkle at the absurdity. Ha. Whatever double entendres
remained in my thoughts (surpassing whichever cathartic realizations I was meant to have on metaphorical peaks) were soon eclipsed by the melodic shuffling through of Stith and Sufjan philosophies. More can be said about the oxymoronic act of "empty" sex in dirty hotel rooms than can be said of climbing up mountains, climbing down. Existing as a dichotomy: ledgers of achievement and failures, which is the better measure of self-worth? I tried to balance books. It was easier to smuggle bones across the border
of three different countries than it was to get a straight answer when I needed one. If questions were bones - they could be finite; measurable and classifiable. Adapted only for the most specific of purposes. They would ossify at their ends, maybe even to a point in which they might become unrecognizable. It would be possible to forget they were there at all. Until they become brittle - or until they grind together. External pressures and forces cause them to break and snap and fracture. So would sticks and stones, they say. Or just a trip up. Perhaps, constant calcification in tissues would mean that bones weren't finite at all. And if questions were bones, they would just get harder with time. Wouldn't it be something
to have a conversation that wasn't deafened by the sounds of a brass choir and guitar harmonics? Could you talk to me about something - anything really - besides the thoughts of other people or the words you haven't wrote? Let's pretend for a second that curiosity doesn't kill cats and independent thoughts have not fallen by the wayside. There was anger on your breath,
there was sadness on your skin, I wasn't thinking. Repeat. I had taken it upon myself to carry the weight of the world.
It became so heavy I had to leave it behind. We used to dream of jumping
off buildings, bridges, cliffs. Each time we'd explode into thousands of pages filled with the heaviest words we knew. We fell no faster. I would have paid
to see your mind on movie screens while my mind degraded due to exposure. I am here and there and then nowhere -
and then floating, flying; around your brain and back and then forth through your limbs. Human touch is delicate, and yet we flinch and fight and hesitate (all from a distance). Who was wrong to have been that deliberate... The world acknowledges movement and the poor attempts at emanicipation creates pseudo-spaces that scream and silence us. It brings us closer to the beginning and the end. Only until I am thrown again to the current or forced to try again. Those prairie winds blow through my hair and I know I am not free. |
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