I don't ever want to forget or lose this video.
18.10.09
When I Wrote Another Short Story
I've been working on this for a while. It's a combination of so many things, so many feelings, so many people. Though structurally it's been heavily influenced by one event, I wouldn't call myself the narrator. There are things the narrator says that are true with me, but there are plenty of things that aren't as well. I'm trying to write less about myself and finally move forward with fiction.
if you read this (you know who you are) please talk to me before you make any assumptions. please. :\
Shift
---------
I stared at the curve of his neck; at those little hairs that look white in the light, those that only make your skin feel softer against my fingers. I could feel them in another world. I was closer to them in another world. I was whispering in his ears, “I know, I know,” in another world. And he was who I had written him to be. In this world I sat across from him at a small, square table, during lunch out in the city.
We had met incidentally, neither of us knowing the other would also be visiting the city this time of year, or ever at all. Seeing him walking down the street that day knocked me off of whatever logical state of mind I had been in. I had just been writing and lately all of my stories had boasted a similar type of character. Only recently had I noticed that they were all somewhat like him. Seeing his physical form almost made me believe I had written him into my real life and that everything that would happen next would be a manifestation of my creativity. Of course I thought of doing nothing but shouting out his name.
We agreed to meet for lunch the next day, at this French restaurant he said his sister recommended. Sitting there across the table from him, I began to imagine what he was thinking. He was turned, looking out a window behind him at a group of people all protesting something neither of us fully understood. The way his eyes looked as he gazed past the immediate foreground granted him this contemplative aura that he likely didn’t really deserve. Knowing he was an artist had me imagining boundless creativity flowing as his stare hinted at inspiration. “Wow, look at how intense that some of those people are,” he said, breaking the illusion. There had been a brief peak in the volume of the protest.
“I kind of wish I knew more about what they were yelling about; they seem way more enthusiastic than protesters back home, even.”
“No kidding,” was all he said to that. After taking a few seconds once more to look around, he admitted, “Man, I could never live in this city, because all I would do is people watch like this.”
People watch. Without any elaboration, I developed my own conception of whatever it was he meant. He would observe passersby, noting passion and feeling in those around him that, for some reason evaded himself. He wondered what it was like to feel, what it was like to be in the world instead of behind glass like he was now. He wondered.
“Ready to get going?” he asked. I wasn’t. We were supposed to get more out of that lunch. We were supposed to rediscover each other and run off, burning bridges left and right swearing to rebuild some sort of life together that neither of us ever had the courage to reach for.
“Yeah, sure.”
--
“Hello once again, stranger.”
I opened my eyes. I had been napping on the grass at a park near the apartment where I was staying. It’s dangerous to wake someone who could possibly love you as gently as he did. Hearing his voice as I awoke fooled me into thinking he would embrace me and run his hands down my back. He did in some other world. He touched the tip of his nose to mine in some other world. He told me I would discover art and feeling and meaning by meeting my gaze with his in another world. In this one he was standing with his sister over me, wearing sunglasses that hid his soul from my wanting eyes.
“It’s like world’s smaller just for us, don’t you think? I’m sorry I woke you, but I wanted you to meet my sister.”
She and I exchanged introductions and handshakes, small talk and flattery. All the while I wanted to grab his hand and run, in no direction in particular, but in one that would take us to another space, where gravity wasn’t around to keep my creativity down on all fours, where my will was my own.
{So run. I’m setting you free.}
the world began to blur like fingers running against an oil canvas his sister had no face soon the line separating her body from the air would be gone and she would be everything the grass fell beneath me i grabbed him while i could and pressed him to my chest he understood everything his fingers grew slightly longer softer his hair swirled his eyes grew brighter he changed in so many ways who was he becoming i held him closer and soon i looked into his eyes more familiar even than my own he whispered i know I know into my ear and the sun weaved a perfect orange shawl to wrap around this world there was nothing else to see or hear or feel only orange only sunset only i know i know i know i know i know
his sister grabbed my hand there is no place for you she shouted she pulled me out of the ground away from him away from his voice there is no place for you there is only this place and you don’t deserve another any more than the rest of us she was louder than anyone had ever been everyone around couldn’t help but face me as if to agree i saw them all forming a circle around us, chained to one another with their mouths sewn shut only their eyes spoke and they stared relentlessly unchanging
But no one ever really looked at me. Nobody cared. Nobody paused even for a second, because they all had somewhere to be, somewhere to go. His sister shook my hand, saying “It was nice meeting you, but we have reservations across town in an hour.” She turned away like I was relatively unimportant and he followed her. He didn’t say goodbye, he didn’t touch me as if to admit he, too, dreaded that we would not meet for however long it would be. I lay back down on the grass, stared upwards and pondered my plans for the rest of the day. I received a message from him on my phone later, saying only “Sorry that was so abrupt.”
if you read this (you know who you are) please talk to me before you make any assumptions. please. :\
Shift
---------
I stared at the curve of his neck; at those little hairs that look white in the light, those that only make your skin feel softer against my fingers. I could feel them in another world. I was closer to them in another world. I was whispering in his ears, “I know, I know,” in another world. And he was who I had written him to be. In this world I sat across from him at a small, square table, during lunch out in the city.
We had met incidentally, neither of us knowing the other would also be visiting the city this time of year, or ever at all. Seeing him walking down the street that day knocked me off of whatever logical state of mind I had been in. I had just been writing and lately all of my stories had boasted a similar type of character. Only recently had I noticed that they were all somewhat like him. Seeing his physical form almost made me believe I had written him into my real life and that everything that would happen next would be a manifestation of my creativity. Of course I thought of doing nothing but shouting out his name.
We agreed to meet for lunch the next day, at this French restaurant he said his sister recommended. Sitting there across the table from him, I began to imagine what he was thinking. He was turned, looking out a window behind him at a group of people all protesting something neither of us fully understood. The way his eyes looked as he gazed past the immediate foreground granted him this contemplative aura that he likely didn’t really deserve. Knowing he was an artist had me imagining boundless creativity flowing as his stare hinted at inspiration. “Wow, look at how intense that some of those people are,” he said, breaking the illusion. There had been a brief peak in the volume of the protest.
“I kind of wish I knew more about what they were yelling about; they seem way more enthusiastic than protesters back home, even.”
“No kidding,” was all he said to that. After taking a few seconds once more to look around, he admitted, “Man, I could never live in this city, because all I would do is people watch like this.”
People watch. Without any elaboration, I developed my own conception of whatever it was he meant. He would observe passersby, noting passion and feeling in those around him that, for some reason evaded himself. He wondered what it was like to feel, what it was like to be in the world instead of behind glass like he was now. He wondered.
“Ready to get going?” he asked. I wasn’t. We were supposed to get more out of that lunch. We were supposed to rediscover each other and run off, burning bridges left and right swearing to rebuild some sort of life together that neither of us ever had the courage to reach for.
“Yeah, sure.”
--
“Hello once again, stranger.”
I opened my eyes. I had been napping on the grass at a park near the apartment where I was staying. It’s dangerous to wake someone who could possibly love you as gently as he did. Hearing his voice as I awoke fooled me into thinking he would embrace me and run his hands down my back. He did in some other world. He touched the tip of his nose to mine in some other world. He told me I would discover art and feeling and meaning by meeting my gaze with his in another world. In this one he was standing with his sister over me, wearing sunglasses that hid his soul from my wanting eyes.
“It’s like world’s smaller just for us, don’t you think? I’m sorry I woke you, but I wanted you to meet my sister.”
She and I exchanged introductions and handshakes, small talk and flattery. All the while I wanted to grab his hand and run, in no direction in particular, but in one that would take us to another space, where gravity wasn’t around to keep my creativity down on all fours, where my will was my own.
{So run. I’m setting you free.}
the world began to blur like fingers running against an oil canvas his sister had no face soon the line separating her body from the air would be gone and she would be everything the grass fell beneath me i grabbed him while i could and pressed him to my chest he understood everything his fingers grew slightly longer softer his hair swirled his eyes grew brighter he changed in so many ways who was he becoming i held him closer and soon i looked into his eyes more familiar even than my own he whispered i know I know into my ear and the sun weaved a perfect orange shawl to wrap around this world there was nothing else to see or hear or feel only orange only sunset only i know i know i know i know i know
his sister grabbed my hand there is no place for you she shouted she pulled me out of the ground away from him away from his voice there is no place for you there is only this place and you don’t deserve another any more than the rest of us she was louder than anyone had ever been everyone around couldn’t help but face me as if to agree i saw them all forming a circle around us, chained to one another with their mouths sewn shut only their eyes spoke and they stared relentlessly unchanging
But no one ever really looked at me. Nobody cared. Nobody paused even for a second, because they all had somewhere to be, somewhere to go. His sister shook my hand, saying “It was nice meeting you, but we have reservations across town in an hour.” She turned away like I was relatively unimportant and he followed her. He didn’t say goodbye, he didn’t touch me as if to admit he, too, dreaded that we would not meet for however long it would be. I lay back down on the grass, stared upwards and pondered my plans for the rest of the day. I received a message from him on my phone later, saying only “Sorry that was so abrupt.”
6.6.09
when i remembered
marker
i remember wielding permanent markers,
each of us by our own pile of stones that would be perfect for skipping
--though we would never know;
all the water we had was in your put up pool,
lord knows our grey little town
only knows rivers of concrete--
we had our way with the stones,
(of course only on one side of each)
they became ours, symbols of our presence,
little manifestations of our instantaneous imaginations,
and when we bored ourselves of art and branding,
i remember us hiding them, feeling guilty,
turning them all face down
i remember what could be that same day
--it's all the same day to me;
yesterday--
rain water running down steel strings,
down so delicately, deliberately,
into those same pools of stones
as if (y)our home itself were
lamenting the impermanence of our innocence,
and i remember the way those stones
boasted a darker hue
when the water kissed their backsides
i remember riding my bicycle today,
--today began when yesterday ended,
when your garage door shut,
and your mulberry tree cried out to me
those painful cries for love
that i could no longer answer--
falling onto some anonymous patch of grass
across your street,
and burdening the ground with my tears
and wants and sorrows it could not cleanse.
i remember my soul leaving my body tomorrow,
--tomorrow is only what could be,
almost never what will--
walking the high-wire that was your brick fence,
and reclaiming all of those stones.
i remember walking from room to room,
laying the stones down side by side,
finally face up,
covering his floor, yours, and all of the house,
the roof, the trees, the grass, the dirt,
the concrete, the wood, the brick, the sand.
--this is ours!--
i remember them lighting up the air,
shining on your complete glass menagerie,
on the melting stuffed dog on the lamp we forgot to find,
on the hole he punched into the wall,
on our city in the mulberry tree.
--this blood is ours!--
i remember wielding permanent markers,
each of us by our own pile of stones that would be perfect for skipping
--though we would never know;
all the water we had was in your put up pool,
lord knows our grey little town
only knows rivers of concrete--
we had our way with the stones,
(of course only on one side of each)
they became ours, symbols of our presence,
little manifestations of our instantaneous imaginations,
and when we bored ourselves of art and branding,
i remember us hiding them, feeling guilty,
turning them all face down
i remember what could be that same day
--it's all the same day to me;
yesterday--
rain water running down steel strings,
down so delicately, deliberately,
into those same pools of stones
as if (y)our home itself were
lamenting the impermanence of our innocence,
and i remember the way those stones
boasted a darker hue
when the water kissed their backsides
i remember riding my bicycle today,
--today began when yesterday ended,
when your garage door shut,
and your mulberry tree cried out to me
those painful cries for love
that i could no longer answer--
falling onto some anonymous patch of grass
across your street,
and burdening the ground with my tears
and wants and sorrows it could not cleanse.
i remember my soul leaving my body tomorrow,
--tomorrow is only what could be,
almost never what will--
walking the high-wire that was your brick fence,
and reclaiming all of those stones.
i remember walking from room to room,
laying the stones down side by side,
finally face up,
covering his floor, yours, and all of the house,
the roof, the trees, the grass, the dirt,
the concrete, the wood, the brick, the sand.
--this is ours!--
i remember them lighting up the air,
shining on your complete glass menagerie,
on the melting stuffed dog on the lamp we forgot to find,
on the hole he punched into the wall,
on our city in the mulberry tree.
--this blood is ours!--
4.2.09
when you're engulfed in flames
i am partial to watching my life burn.
when i feel a hint of heat, this means i sit with my palms out as if to say, "take it." id sooner watch everything disappear than hear, "it's ok, let me perish." id sooner collapse all of my muscles and feel my spirit draining from behind my eyes, pulling me to the center of the Earth than be told i deserve this. i am not built for anxiety.
i am far too sensitive to the gradient of affinity and enmity. one degree darker and "there will never be any more light or love or magic!" one more and not even speech can permeate the void between my bones. there is no sound.
i live for your approval. this is my greatest fault, and will be the death of me.
when i feel a hint of heat, this means i sit with my palms out as if to say, "take it." id sooner watch everything disappear than hear, "it's ok, let me perish." id sooner collapse all of my muscles and feel my spirit draining from behind my eyes, pulling me to the center of the Earth than be told i deserve this. i am not built for anxiety.
i am far too sensitive to the gradient of affinity and enmity. one degree darker and "there will never be any more light or love or magic!" one more and not even speech can permeate the void between my bones. there is no sound.
i live for your approval. this is my greatest fault, and will be the death of me.
13.7.08
when i felt more like a mouse than a man
i would go home to los angeles, get a job, and be working through the summer. i would write letters to eric and other swarthmoreans, and keep track of all those who mattered to me. i would work hard, and earn enough money for me to go out as much as Mikey and Anna always wanted to, and love every minute of it. i would make enough to pay for superb fencing lessons at the la fencing club in westwood, and would practice so damn much that i would be an amazing foilist by the time autumn rolled around. i would even make enough to perhaps take cello lessons maybe once a week, and hopefully bring myself back to where i once was, and try out for orchestra in the fall.
these were my plans; my best laid plans. or, at least, i would work enough to be so busy that i wouldn't be able to feel regret at not carrying out the rest.
of course i did not account for the fact that jobs might be so scarce right around now, and that I might be arriving home just a tad bit after high school students in the area had begun applying like mad to every job in the city. i did not account for the fact that most of my friends might not be around. and i did not account for the fact that my father might faint and break his hip, leaving him bed-and-wheelchair ridden for two months while my mom is away at work all day.
needless to say, now I need to be at home; all the time. whether or not I do very much here is not the issue, all that matters is that i need to be home, just in case my dad needs me. and being at home; being alone; having so much time to do nothing; has forced upon me the ideal situation for discovering how little of me there is left.
i've written--or should i say begun writing--two short stories since i've been home. one is character driven, one plot-driven. they are very different from one another. what i have come to realize, though, is that both stories are about me. they have become an exploration into my own, unhappy mind, and the layers and layers of craven emotions that have manifested themselves there as a by-product of doing nothing. thus, these stories have become larger than me, because they are me. they elude me because i cannot fully see myself. and when they are finished i am almost afraid that i will have defined parts of myself.
and this is why i can't finish them.
so, here i am, in this big pile of nothingness, trying to make sense of things, and i can't.
if i had more energy, i would draw some sort of parallel between my constant urge and failure to write and the myth sisyphus, and throw in for humor the fact that every day i tear a tiny bit of skin on my ear when i put on my earring at night, and every day it heals because of how long i take it out to hide it from my family.
to put it plainly, i'm terribly unhappy.
these were my plans; my best laid plans. or, at least, i would work enough to be so busy that i wouldn't be able to feel regret at not carrying out the rest.
of course i did not account for the fact that jobs might be so scarce right around now, and that I might be arriving home just a tad bit after high school students in the area had begun applying like mad to every job in the city. i did not account for the fact that most of my friends might not be around. and i did not account for the fact that my father might faint and break his hip, leaving him bed-and-wheelchair ridden for two months while my mom is away at work all day.
needless to say, now I need to be at home; all the time. whether or not I do very much here is not the issue, all that matters is that i need to be home, just in case my dad needs me. and being at home; being alone; having so much time to do nothing; has forced upon me the ideal situation for discovering how little of me there is left.
i've written--or should i say begun writing--two short stories since i've been home. one is character driven, one plot-driven. they are very different from one another. what i have come to realize, though, is that both stories are about me. they have become an exploration into my own, unhappy mind, and the layers and layers of craven emotions that have manifested themselves there as a by-product of doing nothing. thus, these stories have become larger than me, because they are me. they elude me because i cannot fully see myself. and when they are finished i am almost afraid that i will have defined parts of myself.
and this is why i can't finish them.
so, here i am, in this big pile of nothingness, trying to make sense of things, and i can't.
if i had more energy, i would draw some sort of parallel between my constant urge and failure to write and the myth sisyphus, and throw in for humor the fact that every day i tear a tiny bit of skin on my ear when i put on my earring at night, and every day it heals because of how long i take it out to hide it from my family.
to put it plainly, i'm terribly unhappy.
8.1.08
when i wrote a short story
A Marsyas In Love
“…and such an innocent smile.”
I grip the steering wheel a little harder. Do we ever really stop loving someone? I think. It’s hard to tell. In this instant there’s an excess of fragmented thoughts swirling around in the air about me, each occasionally flying in one ear and out the other, occupying my mind for a fraction of a nanosecond:
I love Eric I tell myself. I do.
“better pray for your sins…”
I saw Sean yesterday, at dinner. He ruffled my hair from behind, which took me by surprise. I turned around and saw him standing there with his usual goofy posture. He had this weird haircut; his haircuts were always weird. He likes his hair all over his face. I hate feeling my hair on my face or the back of my neck—it just irritates me in this unexplainable way—and when I look at someone whose hair covers his or her face (as his always does) as often as I’ve looked at him, I start to feel it. So, I ruffled his in return; trying to hide that truly I was pushing it over to the side or over the top both so that I could see his eyes and so that the tingles on the back of my neck would go away. I told him to stop trying to be such a hipster. He sat down. I got up. I walked over and gave him a hug that he broke off too soon. I wonder if it’s because he’s hurting, too. I hugged him again and wouldn’t let go; he got the idea. I was almost tempted to tears. I sat back down.
I turn the volume dial up quite a bit, hoping to drown myself in decibels. What did that mean? I wonder.
“BETTER PRAY FOR YOUR SINS…”
I can’t remember if I kissed Eric before I left for the airport last week. It kills me. I know I kissed him on the neck--below his ear; where I love to kiss him—but I’m not sure if I gave him a real kiss—on the lips. With him, those are the kind saved for real emotion and special occasion. (He used to dislike kissing—he was afraid that he was lacking in that sort of talent—but I think I gave him some self-confidence by telling him how happy it made me each time he overcame his self-doubt.) So, as I got into the van and drove further and further from him and the life we knew so well, I couldn’t determine whether or not I felt the lingering of his lips on mine; of that sweet soreness I get when his short facial hair pricks me proudly under my nose. It felt like I was losing him all too fast, losing it all too fast (the life that I lead in Swarthmore); people and memories flew out of me with each passing tree or light post, as if as a parting gift I had set them all free. I was heading home to Los Angeles and, like some neo-Marsyas, was being flayed of my east coast skin—and with it, all of the kisses and handshakes that left even the slightest imprint.
Emotions are magnetic I think, matter-of-factly. As I was being pulled physically by jet engines towards California, I was being pulled by the etho-magnetic field that exists there for me. People and places acted as tesla towers of sorts, both pulling me in and overloading me with a charge of sense and memory. And, with that, I began breathing denser air filled with old thoughts and past-futures. As in Pennsylvania it’s harder to get myself thinking of Sean or my family or my friends, here in the sunshine-and-heavy-traffic state it’s harder not to, because we all will be breathing the same air and I like to believe we can all feel each other; feel that pull.
I slowly press my right foot on the brake for a red light. All of those thoughts swirling around my head fly forward into the windshield. The air is still, even if just for that moment. It’s moments like these—when emotions are temporarily stunned—that are best for logic and rationality; in all other places there’s just too much in the way. Sean and I weren’t meant to last for much longer. I needed something else. In the mere two months I have known Eric I’ve spent morning to night with him, eaten all my meals with him, slept with him, worked with him, fought with him, danced with him, talked with him, talked with him, and talked with him—and I think he’s good for me.
“CAUSE THE-“ I shut off the radio.
I press my foot on the gas and my thoughts are back in flight. If I didn’t completely flay my flesh and expose my bare soul when I fell in love, it wouldn’t really be love. And it would be easier to forget how much I thought his posture was so uniquely goofy and how much I liked fixing his hair when his haircuts bothered me and how much I always thought I could see his eyes staring at me through miles of fog, as big and azure as they are.
“…and such an innocent smile.”
I grip the steering wheel a little harder. Do we ever really stop loving someone? I think. It’s hard to tell. In this instant there’s an excess of fragmented thoughts swirling around in the air about me, each occasionally flying in one ear and out the other, occupying my mind for a fraction of a nanosecond:
Do I miss Sean? Will I always? Left turn arrow. Will I ever forget how his shoulders felt? So many cars in this damned city. I feel guilty. Am I in the right place to be in love again? Lights! Lights! Lights! No, no I’m not. Yes, yes; I swear. I don't trust my own judgment. What do I do when I can’t trust myself? Calm down. How can I ever—
I love Eric I tell myself. I do.
“better pray for your sins…”
I saw Sean yesterday, at dinner. He ruffled my hair from behind, which took me by surprise. I turned around and saw him standing there with his usual goofy posture. He had this weird haircut; his haircuts were always weird. He likes his hair all over his face. I hate feeling my hair on my face or the back of my neck—it just irritates me in this unexplainable way—and when I look at someone whose hair covers his or her face (as his always does) as often as I’ve looked at him, I start to feel it. So, I ruffled his in return; trying to hide that truly I was pushing it over to the side or over the top both so that I could see his eyes and so that the tingles on the back of my neck would go away. I told him to stop trying to be such a hipster. He sat down. I got up. I walked over and gave him a hug that he broke off too soon. I wonder if it’s because he’s hurting, too. I hugged him again and wouldn’t let go; he got the idea. I was almost tempted to tears. I sat back down.
I turn the volume dial up quite a bit, hoping to drown myself in decibels. What did that mean? I wonder.
“BETTER PRAY FOR YOUR SINS…”
I can’t remember if I kissed Eric before I left for the airport last week. It kills me. I know I kissed him on the neck--below his ear; where I love to kiss him—but I’m not sure if I gave him a real kiss—on the lips. With him, those are the kind saved for real emotion and special occasion. (He used to dislike kissing—he was afraid that he was lacking in that sort of talent—but I think I gave him some self-confidence by telling him how happy it made me each time he overcame his self-doubt.) So, as I got into the van and drove further and further from him and the life we knew so well, I couldn’t determine whether or not I felt the lingering of his lips on mine; of that sweet soreness I get when his short facial hair pricks me proudly under my nose. It felt like I was losing him all too fast, losing it all too fast (the life that I lead in Swarthmore); people and memories flew out of me with each passing tree or light post, as if as a parting gift I had set them all free. I was heading home to Los Angeles and, like some neo-Marsyas, was being flayed of my east coast skin—and with it, all of the kisses and handshakes that left even the slightest imprint.
Emotions are magnetic I think, matter-of-factly. As I was being pulled physically by jet engines towards California, I was being pulled by the etho-magnetic field that exists there for me. People and places acted as tesla towers of sorts, both pulling me in and overloading me with a charge of sense and memory. And, with that, I began breathing denser air filled with old thoughts and past-futures. As in Pennsylvania it’s harder to get myself thinking of Sean or my family or my friends, here in the sunshine-and-heavy-traffic state it’s harder not to, because we all will be breathing the same air and I like to believe we can all feel each other; feel that pull.
I slowly press my right foot on the brake for a red light. All of those thoughts swirling around my head fly forward into the windshield. The air is still, even if just for that moment. It’s moments like these—when emotions are temporarily stunned—that are best for logic and rationality; in all other places there’s just too much in the way. Sean and I weren’t meant to last for much longer. I needed something else. In the mere two months I have known Eric I’ve spent morning to night with him, eaten all my meals with him, slept with him, worked with him, fought with him, danced with him, talked with him, talked with him, and talked with him—and I think he’s good for me.
“CAUSE THE-“ I shut off the radio.
I press my foot on the gas and my thoughts are back in flight. If I didn’t completely flay my flesh and expose my bare soul when I fell in love, it wouldn’t really be love. And it would be easier to forget how much I thought his posture was so uniquely goofy and how much I liked fixing his hair when his haircuts bothered me and how much I always thought I could see his eyes staring at me through miles of fog, as big and azure as they are.
7.10.07
when i was finally fucking inspired
I want to tear [you] to pieces.
I want to tear you to pieces, to break your bones
I want to rend you until all that remains is your integrity
I want to dismantle everything you know to be true;
to shatter all of the illusions you let build your bad faith
I want to shell your every layer until I all see is your smile;
to signify that single struggle to breathe that fills all of the tiny little cracks
between the cubes and particles and gaps and happiness
I want you to bleed out your convictions and your morals
Until all you have are your reptilian urges and your essential mind
I want to see you weak and helpless,
Like me and us and everyone
So that you can finally sit and feel the breeze,
Between the cubes and particles and gaps and happiness;
the tiniest movement that exists outside of physics;
the only one that connects us
by convincing us that, really,
there is no gap between your fingers and mine,
and that I am always holding your hand, no matter where I am, or who you are.
I want to tear you to pieces, to break your bones
I want to rend you until all that remains is your integrity
I want to dismantle everything you know to be true;
to shatter all of the illusions you let build your bad faith
I want to shell your every layer until I all see is your smile;
to signify that single struggle to breathe that fills all of the tiny little cracks
between the cubes and particles and gaps and happiness
I want you to bleed out your convictions and your morals
Until all you have are your reptilian urges and your essential mind
I want to see you weak and helpless,
Like me and us and everyone
So that you can finally sit and feel the breeze,
Between the cubes and particles and gaps and happiness;
the tiniest movement that exists outside of physics;
the only one that connects us
by convincing us that, really,
there is no gap between your fingers and mine,
and that I am always holding your hand, no matter where I am, or who you are.
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