there is something not right with me.
there are a lot of somethings.
my tight muscles, for one. my erratic sleep pattern, for another. my bouncing diet and fluctuating weight, my early periods, my maladjusted eyes. life is having its cake and eating it too, going at it so voraciously that the only logical conclusion is that the poor thing is making up for eighteen years of dieting.
you guys are making me live, once and for all.
you deserve a medal for that.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
three three
It is often in the middle of two familiar places that we feel the farthest away from either, the most detached from one another, the most distant from ourselves. It is often in transit that we lose our identities. The process of moving inspires a temporary emphasis and encourages our metamorphosis into disgruntled customers, heavy-lidded vagabonds, whirling rivers of flustered flesh and harrowed bone marrow, and/or speeding blurs of baggage and waving tickets, hoping to god we don’t miss our connection.
It’s too late, however. The plane is gone, and we’ve forgotten how to connect.
We don’t know the first thing about mutual kindness and interest in things beside our own bodily nation-states. We draw borders around our frames like chalk silhouettes on pavement, and we’re just as dead. We treat relationships like transactions and transactions are our favorite relationships. Just swipe my card, hand me the pen, and I can cradle this jacket, these boots, this book until I die. If I work hard enough for things, I won’t need people. I’ll be too busy.
Is it because of our skin colors? Our language barriers? Our origins, histories, personal philosophies, affiliations to different gods? Is it my pale eyes? Are they too light, to cold for you? Do you not like the feeling of a light flurry on your face? Not even the first one of the season, the one you can taste cool on your tongue? Is it my flushed cheeks, the ones that only get tearstained over absolutely nothing because they’re too good for somethings?
Goddamn it. The more I refuse to be another textbook example, the more life tries to write me in the margins. Does life pull that shit with you?
It’s too late, however. The plane is gone, and we’ve forgotten how to connect.
We don’t know the first thing about mutual kindness and interest in things beside our own bodily nation-states. We draw borders around our frames like chalk silhouettes on pavement, and we’re just as dead. We treat relationships like transactions and transactions are our favorite relationships. Just swipe my card, hand me the pen, and I can cradle this jacket, these boots, this book until I die. If I work hard enough for things, I won’t need people. I’ll be too busy.
Is it because of our skin colors? Our language barriers? Our origins, histories, personal philosophies, affiliations to different gods? Is it my pale eyes? Are they too light, to cold for you? Do you not like the feeling of a light flurry on your face? Not even the first one of the season, the one you can taste cool on your tongue? Is it my flushed cheeks, the ones that only get tearstained over absolutely nothing because they’re too good for somethings?
Goddamn it. The more I refuse to be another textbook example, the more life tries to write me in the margins. Does life pull that shit with you?
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