same ole'
And so it begins. Again.
When we last came upon this clearing in the woods, this storm-eye, this safe-zone in the shrapnel, it was not calm at all. It was moving even when it was the benchmark for stability, ph balance of 7. It still managed to be an entity of kinetic point b trajection. What? That’s not a word?
“I like the way it feels on my skin,” she said, and o, she threw her head back. She threw out her back. I threw up.
“and, look, we’re telling time! We’re time!” and we’re squealing, and we’re loving ourselves doing these things. Could I or you have done them alone? If we did, would we care? Sometimes you only can judge things by their relationships…by relations, that theory one, you know.
Dad was cliché, sports car and Brazilian girlfriend, to boot. I mean, come on.
Mom was better off, albeit damaged. But, really, better off and just better.
Sister would show them all. I may have been the hope, but she would be the promise.
I was supposed to be a lot of things. It’s amazing how a fear of being pigeonholed gets one stuck, out in the open, hoping gravity doesn’t spitefully suck you off the surface. That’s what you get for having nothing to cling to. Sure showed you.
You want to make it a game? You will never win. We’re just having a friendly chat. Just don’t make it a game.
Yet we sort of like being winners and losers. We really especially like being losers. How else am I supposed to tell if I’m doing it right? Win or loser.
Now I’ve got the opinion that I’m finally going to win when I give up. This is stupid I don’t want to play anymore. Cross arms. Go home.
Do not misinterpret me. It’s not me I’m giving up on, it’s my relationships. Most of them have been real downers – real seizing up of the shoulder muscles. It got difficult to tell the difference between fear and boredom. They’re just both so darn quiet and lame. Don’t forget time consuming. Quaint, like figurines.
So, I’ve been shelving myself, ironically birdhole-like, knowing there is no battle, wielding a very shiny blade I polish carefully everyday so I can see myself in it. No action, no reaction, only relation and deterioration. As far as the eye can see.
When we last came upon this clearing in the woods, this storm-eye, this safe-zone in the shrapnel, it was not calm at all. It was moving even when it was the benchmark for stability, ph balance of 7. It still managed to be an entity of kinetic point b trajection. What? That’s not a word?
“I like the way it feels on my skin,” she said, and o, she threw her head back. She threw out her back. I threw up.
“and, look, we’re telling time! We’re time!” and we’re squealing, and we’re loving ourselves doing these things. Could I or you have done them alone? If we did, would we care? Sometimes you only can judge things by their relationships…by relations, that theory one, you know.
Dad was cliché, sports car and Brazilian girlfriend, to boot. I mean, come on.
Mom was better off, albeit damaged. But, really, better off and just better.
Sister would show them all. I may have been the hope, but she would be the promise.
I was supposed to be a lot of things. It’s amazing how a fear of being pigeonholed gets one stuck, out in the open, hoping gravity doesn’t spitefully suck you off the surface. That’s what you get for having nothing to cling to. Sure showed you.
You want to make it a game? You will never win. We’re just having a friendly chat. Just don’t make it a game.
Yet we sort of like being winners and losers. We really especially like being losers. How else am I supposed to tell if I’m doing it right? Win or loser.
Now I’ve got the opinion that I’m finally going to win when I give up. This is stupid I don’t want to play anymore. Cross arms. Go home.
Do not misinterpret me. It’s not me I’m giving up on, it’s my relationships. Most of them have been real downers – real seizing up of the shoulder muscles. It got difficult to tell the difference between fear and boredom. They’re just both so darn quiet and lame. Don’t forget time consuming. Quaint, like figurines.
So, I’ve been shelving myself, ironically birdhole-like, knowing there is no battle, wielding a very shiny blade I polish carefully everyday so I can see myself in it. No action, no reaction, only relation and deterioration. As far as the eye can see.
posted by evil at 12:01 PM
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