waiting for march to end
after all, it is a month of inbetweens, lying awkwardly and box-square in the place where a season runs dry and bleeds into the next
i am awkwardly running dry and turning dusty and bitter like a bridge over what once was a river (la piedra es simbolo de infertilidad, tu dois savoir. little red riding hood filled up the carcass of the wolf with stones, raging against the violence of male sexuality that devours soft flesh and heart; eating little girls whole, from their tippy toes to their soft necks and softer lips. das kindermärchen)
in march in me there is a sense of failure but it is mostly generic; you, mon reflet, have not started anything to actually fail.
alas, there are books and silence and the abundance of distractions offered by an internet connection. you dont have to think.
you might have to scream, though
(rail, rail against the dying of the light, moloch! moloch! and all that jazz)
(there is the sense of the multitudes of yous that extend through the infinite sum of moments in discrete time are collectively holding their breath) the person in my head is a creature of the nebulous; the ideas therein are faint, ungraspable, perpetually out of reach but tantalizing in their closeness
(and there is a limit to how long breath can be held in the wet cavities of lungs in divergent realities. in any reality, i would imagine)
this is sleight of hand, of course. everything is congealing in its stillness while you rearrange names and faces and numbered day over counted day over lived minutes over allover and fret and turn over your pockets for any loose change
and indeed, writing for broke sounds romantic, but you're not even writing
you'd do anything, anything for a fix of light
after all, it is a month of inbetweens, lying awkwardly and box-square in the place where a season runs dry and bleeds into the next
i am awkwardly running dry and turning dusty and bitter like a bridge over what once was a river (la piedra es simbolo de infertilidad, tu dois savoir. little red riding hood filled up the carcass of the wolf with stones, raging against the violence of male sexuality that devours soft flesh and heart; eating little girls whole, from their tippy toes to their soft necks and softer lips. das kindermärchen)
in march in me there is a sense of failure but it is mostly generic; you, mon reflet, have not started anything to actually fail.
alas, there are books and silence and the abundance of distractions offered by an internet connection. you dont have to think.
you might have to scream, though
(rail, rail against the dying of the light, moloch! moloch! and all that jazz)
(there is the sense of the multitudes of yous that extend through the infinite sum of moments in discrete time are collectively holding their breath) the person in my head is a creature of the nebulous; the ideas therein are faint, ungraspable, perpetually out of reach but tantalizing in their closeness
(and there is a limit to how long breath can be held in the wet cavities of lungs in divergent realities. in any reality, i would imagine)
this is sleight of hand, of course. everything is congealing in its stillness while you rearrange names and faces and numbered day over counted day over lived minutes over allover and fret and turn over your pockets for any loose change
and indeed, writing for broke sounds romantic, but you're not even writing
you'd do anything, anything for a fix of light
