Wednesday, August 20, 2008

I think you're a tad late with your apology.

I'm finally going home tomorrow, and I'm glad. Why? It'll be comforting to be in the right company again. And I miss just about everybody. I miss you, in particular, a little bit more, though.

But, I'll miss just about everybody. I'll miss you, in particular, a tad bit more, though. What never happened never happened, and I guess we'll just have to leave it at that. Apologies are never too late, as they say, although yours was, unfortunately, too late.

Meanwhile, slums and blighted areas in the centers of cities rot.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.

Dear My Dearest One,

It's not that we don't know how to let go, it's the mere thoughts written in the past that we had come to cherish & can't stop living in. It's somewhat true that people might never change but it's also somewhat true that people grow up. Growing up doesn't necessarily mean someone has matured, growing up can go either way. Look deep inside yourself & search the meaning as to why a person can't leave your thoughts, to why he still lingers in your dreams, & why he still walks to the beat of your heart? Is it really him that you can't let go? Is it really him that you can't come to stop dreaming about? Or is it simply the idea of him that you had engraved in your head in which you cant distinguish the truth from a thought?

I used to once love a person who never once threatened her love for me, but just as the leaves on a cold autumn day withers away, our innocent infatuation came to an end. It took awhile for me to realize that who I missed, who I longed for & who I still held on to so strongly to was not who I once knew. The love that we had for each other was a beautiful portrait in which neither I nor she can deny, but it was later on that I realized is best to savor those moments instead of allowing it to destroy me. It's best to remember her for the person she once was & not the one who I simply can't let go of.

You see, there's a big difference to whom he once was to you & to who he is now in which you cant stop seeing in your dreams. Even if you had the chance to hold his hands again & to feel the beating of his heart next to yours, will his heart still play the same melody? Will his fingers still tap to the same beat? The innocent love that you once had, do you seriously think that it would remain the same? The years had gone by & many branches on a tree have had different leaves grow on them year in & year out, nothing stays the same. The only thing that you can do now is cherish the good memories & accept that this is now, today is what is important & not yesterdays broken promises.

Litre Of Tears by Aya Kito.

Monday, August 18, 2008

I am a fugitive and a public threat, I am an abomination of the able, I am an exception to the accepted.

If you ask where I have been
I have to say, "It so happens..."
I have to talk about the earth turned dark with stones,
and the river which ruins itself by keeping alive;
I only know about objects that birds lose,
the sea far behind us, or my sister crying.
Why so many different places, why does one day
merge with another day? Why does a black night
gather in the mouth? Why are all these people dead?

If you ask where I come from I have to start talking with broken objects,
with kitchenware that has too much bitterness.
with animals quite often rotten,
and with my heavy soul.

What have met and crossed are not memories,
nor the yellow pigeon that sleeps in forgetfulness;
but they are faces with tears,
fingers at the throat,
anything that drops out of the leaves:
the shadowiness of a day already passed by,
of a day fed with our own mournful blood.

Look and see violets, swallows,
all those things we love so much and can see
on the tender greeting-cards with long tails
where time and sweetness are sauntering.

But let's not go deeper than those teeth,
nor bite into the rinds growing over the silence,
because I don't know what to say:
there are so many people dead
and so many sea-walls that the red sun used to split,
and so many heads that the boats hit,
and so many hands that have closed around kisses,
and so many things I would like to forget.

There Is No Forgetfulness by Pablo Neruda.

Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Anxiety had me up early... but I watched the sun land on her face. And optimism slowly crept up, and took hold. So I laid back down.

I miss you.

It’s pretty much
as simple as that.

And I think I miss you
the most when I head
out into the city.

I walk around with my friends,
and we pass the time and walking
with small talk and the illusion
of being sixteen years old again.

We watch the light traffic
work on its stuttering problem,
and I think that it’s been trying
to tell me the same thing
for the last seven years.

We go to the mall in time
for them to mow down the book store
and put up another urban shoe place.

We go to the movies,
pay ten dollars at ticket,
and complain about the way
there’s nothing good out anymore.

We go to Wal-Mart
to try and beat our time
for getting kicked out,
and I watch people spending
money they still don’t have.

We go out to dinner
at one of the three hundred
thousand chain restaurants
that are available in the area,
because the local places
went out of business in the late 90’s.

And I listen to people talk,
and I listen to my friends talk,
and I listen to the news that somehow
manages to howl in spite of the mute
button running the show.

I listen to everyone talking about
taxes, college, a new car, money,
other people’s children, music,
money, war, money, music, God,
war, sports, sex, money, sex, films,
sex, war, money, racist jokes, money.

I listen,
still manage to talk a lot,
and think about how I’ve been tired
of all this for a very long time.

And anyway,
even when I’m right there,
babbling on with the rest of them,
I’m actually about three thousand
miles away.

I’m in California,
or wherever you want to live,
and I’m getting ready for bed.

And I’m thinking about
something you did earlier
that really pissed me off,
but I have to admit that
it’s not really bothering
me all that much anymore.

I’m just glad that it’s really
easy to drift off to the way
you fall asleep long before I do.

You’d be amazed at how much
good you can get out of the sound
of long, steady breaths.

I think about that.
I think about not knowing
when I’m going to see you again.

That’s when someone usually
asks me if everything’s okay.

And I kinda smile,
unless I’m in the mood for self-pity,
turning forty-seven in 2012.

The usual things I do
to keep myself amused.

I smile helplessly
and start making fun
of someone’s stupid haircut.

I still miss you,
and I’m still depressed
by the fact that I’m really
no better than anyone else.

5:30, california time by Gabriel Ricard

Thursday, August 14, 2008

The darkness of the room was like sunlight to me.

When it all started I felt illuminated.
The light was small but I was a well-oiled machine. Churned, and cranked, and burned so bright that I gleamed from behind your shiny eyes.

We were growing strong and fast and without consequence when the first wrench got thrown into the gears - an insult in one of the ears. A cold steel hunk of a word, whirled in and nearly knocked me out flat.

The kid that threw it, I doubt that he was even aiming for me.

I got by, just some added resistance. The gears, a little rusted now and make a sort of rhythmic chink-chink to a beat. I... almost like it, but I know that with every turn-around it's wearing down, bit by bit.

Later, you fell in love, or got confused, anyway, and the gears reeled and stuttered and our bulb went white and hot and pissed until it finally cracked. And everything went black.

Now the light that burned bright is chipped and dim. The energy I burn to make the gears turn gets little in return, so I try to take it slow, keep just enough light to see my way around.

No sense in sweating to see a little further, right?

Maybe sometimes we'd rather stay in the dark.

Light Headed by Andy DeVries

I can never love again knowing love and pain go hand in hand, and I can't do it again.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Monday, August 11, 2008

(These are my disclaimers, I use them often.)

I heard a winter tree in song
Its leaves were birds, one hundred strong;
When all at once it ceased to sing,
For every leaf had taken wing.

Conceit by Mervyn Peake

Sunday, August 10, 2008

All I have left is one awkward embrace -- my last chance for a smile on your face.

How bare the backs of elevators are, unbeknownst to us.

I've experienced something these past few days which has left me numb and disinterested to all of my surroundings. I'm feeling down, and I'm down. I don't believe I've ever felt so held back. So withdrawn from what I want. This distance, this distance.

You're there, you're there! I know you're there. And I would like to be so much closer. Those moments we spent together, and how vulnerable I make myself by saying this, but those moments...

I haven't quite felt like that before. I don't know what it was about you that made me feel so certain of what I wanted. So sure. And when you held me, so comforted. Your shyness, your shyness. The way you stood against the railing on the edge of the deck, peering into the ocean, our last few moments together, the way you stood. The words we shared, the thoughts we conquered. My goofiness, my kisses across the length of your arm, your reaction. And when I held you, and when I held you! During those moments we shared together on that (oh so comfortable) couch, and I felt infinite. Our hands clasped so tightly, that warmth between us shared, the moments passing. What I'd give to hold you again, what I'd give.

So infantile this may sound, for it lasted only days. But I just haven't quite felt like this before. And I hate knowing I may never see you again. And I hate knowing I may never feel this again.

I know this will pass. I know I will grow away from this, as will you. And it hurts, it hurts. But you are so much more than a to-be-forgotten memory, so much more. So for you, I can't let it all go. So for you, I give you this: some writing to remind me of a time when I was with you. A time when things were real. When my feelings were raw, were genuine. When my life was full of real human emotion. When moments were full of heartfelt intimacy, when holding someone was for more than to just be held back, when a single kiss on the lips was felt throughout the entirety of my body.

I miss you.

Friday, August 1, 2008

Sometimes, when we were talking, I would stop, and sigh, and close my eyes. It's then that I knew and felt what was to come.

I am back, I am back. And how things have changed, oh, oh how they've changed.