Sunday, June 27, 2010

milestone day

anxiety addiction elevation intoxication. homage. to luck. my luck, how weird it hits when I am dragging my feet around, snarling at the world for a little shut up and leave me alone, and suddenly, I am filled with benign hope. perhaps perhaps perhaps lifes not so bad at all, there are still many wonderful things left, beyond my current view, far beyond, but definitely in existance, hope burns bright. and my eyes are happy with the curve in my hips and the depth of my voice, and the wrinkles of age that grow steadily and all the excess fat I carry around, and the hair I don't have, and the dreams I still do.

What a stroke of luck that I can be a comfort to myself when I need it the most, are you listening, wayward body, winding soul, I sneaked one past you, Im actually doing something that's good for me. Im actually tasting freedom and feeling colors, and understanding the futility that marches around, making me protect this rotten soul, with layers and layers of healthy fluff.

When I don't care if I live or die, when the incredibly weakening hold of love can be forgotten or laid aside for just a moment, when I am no longer at the altar, funny how sacrifice and marriage happen at the same place inside so many heads. In other words, for language, Im ok. I was born without a spine, you hear? I was born to dissolve and I cannot be anything but a mollusc, albeit a rude one with spines. you see?

I have a memory that crosses over generations to bring back answers, then stops confused at noisy intersections. which way was I going again? Give me a cloister and a robe and a book of emptiness, and I will fill it with beautiful lines and whispered secrets that will make your head spin and your eyes blind. If you go in for that sorta thing. But whispers across centuries cannot be felt, realized, captured with noises, they are grown with goosebumps and smiles and utter silence, the kind only possible when a little death is mixed with life every day.

And of course, it is all fiction, it will all be fiction. I have a passing relationship with fact, recognized and discarded, conflicted and confused, I have a deeply embedded private gene that ain't gonna make a scene about my truths, ever. If I were to deal with fact, all I ever have to say to the whole wide world is sorry. And thank you.


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