eyesbright
The word fulfillment looks off. The first part of the word, 'ful', isn't full enough. And I think that's ironic. The rest of the word kind of just spills out, trying to make up for that lack. And isn't that what we're all doing? Getting almost enough, but not enough of the right thing, and trying to fill the gaps with shit we don't need or really, truly want?
Shock is a bad word to use. It's a nothing word. A word that can only mean something to you if you're in the thick of it. You can't feel shock by reading it. You can't feel shock by saying it. You can only feel it when you're down on your knees, waist deep in it. You can only feel it if it's taken your heart out of your chest.
there's nothing wild about the word wilderness; an absence of that strong vowel sound has ripped the word of its savagery. wilderness beckons. you hear it and you're standing at the foot of a forest, and you are not afraid.
Strike like snakes bearing their white fangs, gleaming beneath the sun.
Strike - I was never struck. I was never bitten, never beaten. I was thrown out of cars and pushed against walls, but never struck.
Strike - picket against the feeling that's been tearing you apart inside. Refuse to leave until it puts on its shoes and the door hits its ass on the way out.
I talked about morals with a friend today, and about how Rahab lied to protect others. She was praised, but the Bible still says lying is wrong.
I talked about psychology and religion with you today. We talked about the phenomenological perspective - how things exist because they exist in the minds of people. Is that defined enough?
I thought about love today. I thought of its barriers, how there don't seem to be any. Is it something that should be defined?
I thought about us today, how we're holding onto each other, how we don't really have a name. I am not your girlfriend, I am not your wife, I am not even something you can hold at night. Somehow, I still feel your arms around me.
I could look love up in a dictionary and think of your smile when I'm supposed to be following the words with my eyes. I could look light up in a dictionary and think of how you calm me, how you seem to touch me even when you're fourteen hours away. You are something I can't define.
Firearm. Arms made of fire. You could touch me and I'd combust. And that's not what that means, firearms are weapons of anger. But I think if you shot me, all I'd feel would be love. Love, love, bleeding red, and I'm staring up at your face like you've freed me from something.
Firearm. Arms made of fire. You could hold me and I could fall asleep, for a night, for forever.
I imagine the taste of bourbon, how it would sting my virgin lips. I imagine what you tasted like after a shot of whiskey in my name. I have drank alcohol, but nothing is as heady as your slurring words.
The microwave beeps, making me jump. I remember how we'd used to hide before it reached the end, because it was a bomb or something in our minds. She pulls the bag of popcorn out with her wiry fingers. I watch as her frame disappears into the living room, her pale skin almost glowing in the dark like a skeleton.
She's taken a turn for the worst lately. Popcorn is the only thing she eats--and she makes me eat more than half the bag. I watch as she grows skinnier still.
And even though I know we're both just counting the seconds till she dies, I can't help feeling that pang of jealousy.
I've been drawing all day. The first picture was of a house, but it wasn't exactly a house. It was all disconnected and out of place. Inside the house is a swingset. Sometimes I see swingsets in my nightmares, and also the pond beside my house. I never have violent dreams. Just ones where I'm being chased, or trapped. But I draw my nightmares out on paper, and it makes them go away.
My musings lately are of beauty and all its morals, the self of it that has settled itself upon me not unlike a plague. In everything, I recognize something I love. I now refuse to think of words such as "plague" and "death" as ugly. Endings can be beautiful too. My perspective is so changeable that in a week I don't doubt I'll be thinking about the ugliness in everything.
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writing since 2011 · 45 entries · 45 days shown up
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