each day we use a new damaged thing, but we don’t realize it. like broken bristles on a brush; toothless, smile gone, and it only scratches my head, and time tells of my tangles. but i am lazy to care too much. borrowed it years ago; never had the heart to give it back, never had the heart to pull it out. now the handle’s gone and left me in tears, sane and stubbed and sad. broken bristles on a half brush, so i guess i’ll hang it on the christmas tree and ask for a new one next year.
peace to me is a golden haired dog asleep on a floor by a fireplace. and a fire which is concealed but still spreading, and it’s casting its warm radiance. and i could say it is like the sun, but it’s not harsh like the sun, it’s not cold like the sun, it is quiet unlike the sun. peace to me is a dream i can’t catch with my hands, it becomes a buzzing in my ear for some reason. and it hurts my heart. it leaves burn marks like the sun. though the sun would obliterate me, and i won’t pretend it won’t. waking up from a decent dream isn’t like the sun. it’s just mildly uncomfortable.
hiding under the fig tree has become my past time. “do you see me?” I cry, tearing the grass of my labor from it’s roots. “do not hide your face from me.” i hear my voice whine, like an old carriage, deteriorated from its long years of faithful service. i say this in a place I do not know; in a time that isn’t mine, but in the distance someone hears me, and pays attention to my cry. perhaps soon I will meet with him and as he wipes away the tears of my darkest moment; when I was alone in my misery. he’ll say, “I did not turn my face from you, I saw you under the fig tree.”
i think the moon loves the sun. though they could be enemies, i believe they are lovers, drenched in the tragedy that they will never cross paths. simply a classic story told by shakespeare, but i might not be unscathed enough to believe in such magic. the moon is cold, like a breath stolen in winter; covered in craters made by the stars’ paper airplanes. the sun is hot, like an embrace made from fire; covered in boils shot from the earths war cannons. yet they glimpse each other from afar. so this is the story of the moon and his sun. that even if their love was destined to be apart, they never took for granted crashing lips upon lips, cherishing the moment of their timeless eclipse.
somewhere, you can stretch every moment into a kind of forever. somewhere the air is fresh and there’s no place to hang the clocks, those that tell us we are fortune’s fool have no authority on polished rocks or blades of ecstasy. sweetened grass, green and mellow, this is thy solivagant destiny. to be our own suns bright and beautiful and yellow. and if we should die tonight should we be moved from our hiraeth, then tonight must be billions away because in this moment you are mine and this is thy dearest fate.
i love when people relate to me. when i say i hate school and they tell me they hate it too. for whatever reason. maybe they hate waking up early. I just hate order. i hate being lonely, and wandering the halls, and realizing i forgot how many friends i don’t have. i love when people relate to me. and they say they don’t have friends either, but they don’t suggest being friends with me. i want to be alone with someone, where we both sit there eyes looking at eyes soaking up the feeling of knowing i can talk if i need to. but not needing to talk to survive.
please just let yourself be. allow yourself to exist and enjoy it. go outside, and even more so when it rains. and when the thunder drains out the clouds so that the sprinkles become a torrent, take your hood off and close your eyes, and let yourself feel. let yourself feel everything. let yourself hear the pleading cries of the gutter, as it struggles to keep up with the storm. then let your foot fall into the puddle it forms, and watch as the water travels up to meet the falling rain once again. and sure it will pass through the barriers of your shoe, soak up into the confines of your sock, and show you what cold is once again. but it doesn’t matter. existing is learning how to be okay with saying “i must let myself feel”.
and her greatest fear, was the one she experienced the most.
abandonment.
loss.
there is no difference between the whispers in the wind, and the people who left, but never learned the art of staying gone.
the faces i still see everyday, are the same as the ones in the sunset. but i don’t blame my sunset faces, for they never chose to drift away.
unlike the strangers i know so well.
he dunked me in frigid water and expected me to burn, to boil our love to bask in our flames to toil under the sun we ignited. he buried me in snow as if it were the sand and told me to rest to calm down, and withstand. but amid endearing words he missed the twinkling in my eye. he promised me the heavens but gave me torn wings and expected me to fly.
