as you all know, i work the night shift. frankly it's too much time spent alone and awake. so i write. last night, i wrote this. i don't know what it is, though it seems rather like a salilaquoi of some sort. now if i could only develop it into some coherent narrative...
nowadays time seeps through all the cracks before you notice it gone. when you do catch it sneaking, just about to slip away, it stands still like a deer cought in headlights. Then you blink and it pirouettes away.
you wish back the days when you rushed home with Atwood's Alias Grace and flopped onto your bed to read for hours. you were content. you miss that predictable child.
nowadays, you have stopped thinking and to begin again seems impossible. you know your vulnerabilities and you suspect everyone else does too. you hate how permeable you've become and you are aware that you co-exist with your projections of yourself. you wonder if they, too, have hearts. but no. you've trained them well. you haven't stopped thinking; you too think too much and feel more. you are still that child and the self-conscious adolescent streak you've had since 14 has widenend to swallow you whole.
you wish back love, forgetting its complexities. you lament that your passion, inspiration, you... find sources in others. somewhere between 14 and now, you left yourself. idealism sunk in (as time pushed you to this second) but it evades you, encompassing though you are with your projections and insecurities. you search for it in men and hate yourself for letting them get under your skin and fingernails.
this will not do. if you are sad, at least have your reasons. if you break, break crawling out, not going in. if you stop, look at the mask that slips off your face and smile, baby, it's all you've got left now.
nowadays time seeps through all the cracks before you notice it gone. when you do catch it sneaking, just about to slip away, it stands still like a deer cought in headlights. Then you blink and it pirouettes away.
you wish back the days when you rushed home with Atwood's Alias Grace and flopped onto your bed to read for hours. you were content. you miss that predictable child.
nowadays, you have stopped thinking and to begin again seems impossible. you know your vulnerabilities and you suspect everyone else does too. you hate how permeable you've become and you are aware that you co-exist with your projections of yourself. you wonder if they, too, have hearts. but no. you've trained them well. you haven't stopped thinking; you too think too much and feel more. you are still that child and the self-conscious adolescent streak you've had since 14 has widenend to swallow you whole.
you wish back love, forgetting its complexities. you lament that your passion, inspiration, you... find sources in others. somewhere between 14 and now, you left yourself. idealism sunk in (as time pushed you to this second) but it evades you, encompassing though you are with your projections and insecurities. you search for it in men and hate yourself for letting them get under your skin and fingernails.
this will not do. if you are sad, at least have your reasons. if you break, break crawling out, not going in. if you stop, look at the mask that slips off your face and smile, baby, it's all you've got left now.
It's weird, because I thought I would miss it. But I actually keep forgetting that it's gone. I guess it wasn't that big of a deal one way or the other afterall!
How was your weekend?