what one would say with idle fingers, and what one would write with closed lips

Sep 2, 2008

ouch, i think.  you’ve hit a nerve there.  now my leg is trembling at it is really awkward to walk away.  one simply cannot make a graceful exit like this, hobbling with embarassment.  what’s worse, really, is that there is nowhere to go.  let no one say that it isn’t difficult to get away from one’s self.  sure, there are amnesiatic substances galore that one can ingest, inhale, or immerse the psyche in.  but these things are as finite as matchstick flames, which one can make good use of before they burn fingertips, surely, but they will clutter up your ashtrays.

i keep reading the same books.  threading my way through the familiar stories, remembering the endings prematurely.  it passes the time while i get comfortable.  the sentences dance across the lenses of my glasses in a silent room, dimly lit because i haven’t yet realized that the light has been failing.  i get startled by the ringing of the telephone, and i become disgruntled by the interruption of my own personal state of nirvana.  nose to the page, i think of nothing but these fictional people, and with bleary eyes misfocused on darkened walls, i become a part of their story.

with lovely countenances and ill-advised aquaintances, you stand on the rooftops of your city and stare into other people’s lives.  these are the lives that you will never live, and so you make them glamorous despite the concrete floors and ill-balanced gaits.  or rather you make fun and tarnish those pretty pictures so shallow so that you may cease to think of them fondly.  here above lights and crowds you ask yourself where exactly the meaning lies.  maybe it was there for a moment in the exhilaration, but sense always returns to the foolish.  one should never tempt children with sweets.

staring at walls with undisguised amazement you are bemused.  you are not wondering what you are doing here, but what these are doing here.  black and white and gray, haunting just the way you like it.  another stroke of genius that you ravenously consume.  oh you love these examples of strange beauty, your idea of loveliness being flexible.  you only wish that your envy wouldn’t try to creep in so, to discolor these moments.  if possible you would surround yourself with these phrases and images and sounds indefinitely.  for this a room would be built with a barred doors and windows that only let in the early morning light and the gloom of dusk.  and in this you would sit with your hair growing long and your limbs growing thin while you contentedly drown.


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