Shirtless with the flames tickling the flesh. The face taut and dry, the mind ripe and crisp and slowing time, the eyes ridiculous and wide and blurred with tear. A teddy bear waiting at the horizon of hell just beyond the accepting arms of the soulless, asking them for forgiveness.
We are no longer heroes. We are no longer boys. No longer will there be a shade to hide yourself; yourself, larger and more awkward than any shape of shelter.
Everybody wants to be broken sometimes, right?
Then hunched in flames with concave chest and raised shoulder blades. Time to decide!
27 July 2009
25 July 2009
L
And then 18 and the eyes meet my future bride’s for the first time. Lock for a moment, that is all. What beauty. 'Que bonita!' 'Who is that?' But an internal question and we don’t speak then; cowardice is far too easy.
And now 21 and it's St. Patrick’s Day and there is a party in my apartment. Everyone green and half-friends. She is there, across the room.
And we play a board game after the beers and she and I are a team. Her doing, though I will not know that for years. I have seen her around, there and across the room and there, but never this comfortable - our knees are close and touching. What to do? Surely you should say something clever and lasting; or at least move your knee. - but my phone rings and it is my then girlfriend and she has moved to another state which grants new lives and apparently hers dislikes her old which includes me and we are over and it ruins my night because...
...the game has ended and it will be years until I have another opportunity like that with her and even then I make it impossible for myself…at least that is how I remember it.
And now 21 and it's St. Patrick’s Day and there is a party in my apartment. Everyone green and half-friends. She is there, across the room.
And we play a board game after the beers and she and I are a team. Her doing, though I will not know that for years. I have seen her around, there and across the room and there, but never this comfortable - our knees are close and touching. What to do? Surely you should say something clever and lasting; or at least move your knee. - but my phone rings and it is my then girlfriend and she has moved to another state which grants new lives and apparently hers dislikes her old which includes me and we are over and it ruins my night because...
...the game has ended and it will be years until I have another opportunity like that with her and even then I make it impossible for myself…at least that is how I remember it.
P
And I always thought I would be 25 and fine...And I'm not, my head is a mess from all these conversations with myself. My mind has gone astray; looking every which way for some protection.
Racing from thought to thought and on nothing specific. Never anything specific. I would not think it a problem if it hadn't been the case for months. I haven't held a legitimate thought longer than a sentence in an eternity and it is killing me. And - get this - I can't even write 2's or 3's or S's or other curve-first characters without a hand stutter. Maddening, and there is nothing in my power to reverse it. So many questions that I needed answered, like, why I am more myself when all alone? Why are there so few things that truly make me glad? And...and, why am I losing my head?
It was coming all along, a slow genetic train, fueled by the choices I had made, halting to a stop in an empty, stagnant station. For - I will lose my mind someday after I had sinned a thousand times, because I knew nothing but selfishness, and my mind will no longer be an asset as descent from melody to cacophony takes hold. Though it had been dormant for so long, it will happen quicker than can be imagined. I will vegetate. And it will not have been my choice.
Not to worry though - I'll get used to the lack of original thought, melodic dreams, incessant questions, and spontaneous inspiration. I will become idle, soft, and a champion regurgitator of others' ideas. I will do a fantastic job of hiding in self-preservation and will ultimately convince myself that the new state is the norm and the old the anomaly. Adaptability, the nefarious human condition.
Racing from thought to thought and on nothing specific. Never anything specific. I would not think it a problem if it hadn't been the case for months. I haven't held a legitimate thought longer than a sentence in an eternity and it is killing me. And - get this - I can't even write 2's or 3's or S's or other curve-first characters without a hand stutter. Maddening, and there is nothing in my power to reverse it. So many questions that I needed answered, like, why I am more myself when all alone? Why are there so few things that truly make me glad? And...and, why am I losing my head?
It was coming all along, a slow genetic train, fueled by the choices I had made, halting to a stop in an empty, stagnant station. For - I will lose my mind someday after I had sinned a thousand times, because I knew nothing but selfishness, and my mind will no longer be an asset as descent from melody to cacophony takes hold. Though it had been dormant for so long, it will happen quicker than can be imagined. I will vegetate. And it will not have been my choice.
Not to worry though - I'll get used to the lack of original thought, melodic dreams, incessant questions, and spontaneous inspiration. I will become idle, soft, and a champion regurgitator of others' ideas. I will do a fantastic job of hiding in self-preservation and will ultimately convince myself that the new state is the norm and the old the anomaly. Adaptability, the nefarious human condition.
P
Lost. Walking a dirt road. Dust lungs, coughing and hating. He was given a truth to either digest or reject; blissful ignorance was gone.
A glaring weakness in one supposedly stronger. Not without remorse, one hopes, but full of pity and so grotesque.
No one now telling him how to act. He relies on indifference, his valued friend and protector.
Vomiting and praying and hating.
Just tired.
A glaring weakness in one supposedly stronger. Not without remorse, one hopes, but full of pity and so grotesque.
No one now telling him how to act. He relies on indifference, his valued friend and protector.
Vomiting and praying and hating.
Just tired.
21 July 2009
L
And now 27 and then alone and together and doing nothing and he asks;
"Do you think anyone else is doing exactly this just now?"
And she makes a noise - "weet wong."
And, "what was that?"
She - "I just want to make sure that no one is doing exactly what we are right now."
And he laughs and there is no better feeling than that.
"Do you think anyone else is doing exactly this just now?"
And she makes a noise - "weet wong."
And, "what was that?"
She - "I just want to make sure that no one is doing exactly what we are right now."
And he laughs and there is no better feeling than that.
M
Largely the feeling is irreplaceable - though maybe via drug. It turns you to a child and crushes your heart. It's wonder and awe and bewilderment and hard truth.
And also full of mischief. Just a little. Like knowing a secret: an early-morning gossip for your housewife mind. A secret to keep to yourself, briefly, but to also share - if only to ensure your boys know that you found it first.
And does it not also fill you with power? For just that moment you could take on the world and the balance of your existence instead of thrashing about, kicking and screaming...as now.
And also full of mischief. Just a little. Like knowing a secret: an early-morning gossip for your housewife mind. A secret to keep to yourself, briefly, but to also share - if only to ensure your boys know that you found it first.
And does it not also fill you with power? For just that moment you could take on the world and the balance of your existence instead of thrashing about, kicking and screaming...as now.
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