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to be honest, I'm not sure what's with me lately... it's been hard to write... it feels dishonest or repetitive... having the same thoughts, watching them pass by in syntax of threes, this and this yet this or this and this but that
I've become more conscious of a different way of going about it. I don't feel deserving of a full-chested breath but there is a centrifuge a whorl of tension laid out and almost pressed up against my upper ribcage, dissipating smoke like flames licked against a hot door handle. I felt deeply before numbed out before I realized somewhere in between my body has become the receptacle for all that should be in my mind and vice versa--is that such a bad thing? experience is not held within in the same # of dimensions: we are singular beings at mercy of entire other universes of existence: in the end won't we all map it onto ourselves equally inaccurately and different. Cold antartica spread its arms out and seemed so expansive to be able to hold the world
at the poles of anything perception warped unfettered by moderation and with the singular goal of whatever goes. I didn't sleep and my
indifference a flat smear and my representation of true north. I can admit I was proud. I was not like the others who bereaved you. You were allowed to leave me, as long as I was allowed to hold it against you back. Anger was not that way, a discharge of fear that led to a fist, a fist that led to a clasp, a clasp that blistered my skin upon contact with yours. my face burned like my hair was on fire but I couldn't muster any of that, real strength
Two weeks ago I cried, I wanted to cry, because I let hope surge through me and felt just how far away it had been. Sometimes it's a series of events altogether, the good and the bad, bad because of the good, and resenting wanting it all: still, I met him again. I've never had this experience before, not all the way--having been left and returned to myself--having remembered--having been the one excited and delivered. I feel pleasure in the small surprise of seeing him. I want to hold onto him and as it always goes share that I know him, recognize him, can learn him. I am too reticent to speak; it makes a fool out of me, for and not by others. I don't want to think about it too hard. I'm happy
I want to put it to practice now. Hard of memory... to get from in between I will have to lose sight of the shore. It's all been lifeboats and rafts. But that's not the point--it's a bad metaphor--who do I call you, you, her and him--a school of fish--a navy officer--the force of the tide tugging me in a direction. I want it. I want a whole life. I want my head above the water. I will have it, I will earn it, I will know what it means. I will make my world bigger and bigger until my movements outside of me brush the blue sky
I've become more conscious of a different way of going about it. I don't feel deserving of a full-chested breath but there is a centrifuge a whorl of tension laid out and almost pressed up against my upper ribcage, dissipating smoke like flames licked against a hot door handle. I felt deeply before numbed out before I realized somewhere in between my body has become the receptacle for all that should be in my mind and vice versa--is that such a bad thing? experience is not held within in the same # of dimensions: we are singular beings at mercy of entire other universes of existence: in the end won't we all map it onto ourselves equally inaccurately and different. Cold antartica spread its arms out and seemed so expansive to be able to hold the world
at the poles of anything perception warped unfettered by moderation and with the singular goal of whatever goes. I didn't sleep and my
indifference a flat smear and my representation of true north. I can admit I was proud. I was not like the others who bereaved you. You were allowed to leave me, as long as I was allowed to hold it against you back. Anger was not that way, a discharge of fear that led to a fist, a fist that led to a clasp, a clasp that blistered my skin upon contact with yours. my face burned like my hair was on fire but I couldn't muster any of that, real strength
Two weeks ago I cried, I wanted to cry, because I let hope surge through me and felt just how far away it had been. Sometimes it's a series of events altogether, the good and the bad, bad because of the good, and resenting wanting it all: still, I met him again. I've never had this experience before, not all the way--having been left and returned to myself--having remembered--having been the one excited and delivered. I feel pleasure in the small surprise of seeing him. I want to hold onto him and as it always goes share that I know him, recognize him, can learn him. I am too reticent to speak; it makes a fool out of me, for and not by others. I don't want to think about it too hard. I'm happy
I want to put it to practice now. Hard of memory... to get from in between I will have to lose sight of the shore. It's all been lifeboats and rafts. But that's not the point--it's a bad metaphor--who do I call you, you, her and him--a school of fish--a navy officer--the force of the tide tugging me in a direction. I want it. I want a whole life. I want my head above the water. I will have it, I will earn it, I will know what it means. I will make my world bigger and bigger until my movements outside of me brush the blue sky
