––I’m in your room and it smells like pee, and banking. A lingering sense of about-ness punctures my cognition like darts at a lesbian bar.
––Let me know what you think about letters and trends. Play the song that lets you know, but let me. I let you know how to tell me. Did I not? I didn’t realize you were moving through a piece of life separate from mine. When I thought of you, I thought that my thought was you. I forgot that you are bigger than the size of my head. And that my body and mind aren’t separable. I do wish, with both, that you would touch the inside of my wrist sometimes. It could be sweet, by Portishead. What is this impossible feeling? Why are you at the bottom of everything I feel?
––Something so witty, charismatic, grounding, improvisational, beautiful, young, demanding, intelligent, sensitive, quick loves something so gentle, self-loathing, reflective, reflexive, innocent, generous, obsessive in you. We’re know to each other through each other. Time is always running away from me as I consider how to say it. I think I have to be one way or the other. I’m stylish in that sense––I feel I must make clear choices facing one way or the other. I believe in duality because I know my belief sets me free. I’m unburdened by theory; I don’t let it age or separate me. Typically the sadness I feel teaches me my limits. It shows me the boundaries of my experiencing self and the experience at hand. Any experience. I learn from only myself. Here is how I’m oriented toward finality. A stable version of myself. Contained.
No comments:
Post a Comment