9:44 p.m. - 2005-10-13
It's raining cats and dogs, but don't step on a poodle.
Soft. Flowing. Soothing. But it tastes like metal mixed with the feeling that bruises are being pushed, a pain that tingles more than hurts. And you'll float away, wave goodbye to the world that has become perfect. Rose colored glasses and distance. You're disappearing. Becoming a song that we wouldn't even want to dance to. Depressing. Remnants of eighth grade journal entries and flowers drawn with petals falling silently among the rain. I'm not poetic. This is not poetry. Sinking ships and painting glitter lines along eyelids. Smooth, curling, stetching, reaching. No one is paying for the ordinary. A snakelike movement of glitter, covering wrinkles that came too early and motherhood pride that shines from protruding tummy as well as glowing eyes. This is more than glitter.
Leaves, gathered under trees, holding conferences to describe the weather and the boss's divorce and troublesome kids. Gossip among Mothers....Poor Mother Nature, shielding insults with icy stares. Oh so stoic. And we won't turn up the heat or put on more clothing. We'll simply lie here among the frosty leaves, hidden in the season's grave, holding our breath and counting backwards from 10, because "then you'll be asleep," says the doctor administering the sleeping gas, and soon I'm 7 again, with pigtails and a sweatshirt that matches nylon stretch pants. Spinning on tire swings that never stop. Singing songs my mother taught me. All alone when it matters the least. Spinning endlessly. Forever. Puddles under my feet from the week's rain. I never took it personally.
Missing you to death and wreaths on Christmas. Cars that drive in and out of cycles of circles of units of sine, cosine, tangents. You're making something out of nothing. Or vice versa. Triangles and circles will never be the same and hearts will never make adequate homes. Everything that is beautiful tonight displayed through a child's smile and the embrace of eyes in a hallway of strangers. The grin of a friend who needs a friend and a book that ends badly. When the hero fails, we all sink a level lower and mourn. If there are no heroes, we're all just what we are, there is nothing better to strain for. What simply choose to forget that there is life outside of our imaginations. We choose to believe that the highway does not end.
When I keep track on white boards with tally marks the hours I spend in comfort, would I choose to spend them with you?
You know. There are the friends that I check my schedule for and make it fit in. And there are the friends that I would cancel everything for and simply cease to have a schedule. Knowing the difference in simple, but I'm not giving hints.
Tastes like Iron and Wine - bitter and unpleasant to a degree, but after a while numbing in taste. I'm not judging. I'm not playing the devil. I'm just playing the tambourine. And taking pictures. And charging batteries. And reading about the heros that failed and inspired America. Suffering leads to happiness. This is how we learn to feel and become numb and then choose to feel. Unless we forget.
We simply choose to forget.
18 and out.
