luco

luco

This user account status is Approved

raise

I'm trying to raise myself. To bring myself up the the occasion. To expectations or maybe just an attempt at meaning something. But everyone knows everything means nothing. Right?

cheek

Cheek. On the face, a slap. A slap for being cheeky. It wasn't really his fault that he had large cheek bones, but I guess in the end it just made them easier to slap.

mist

I wake up and I'm in a world surrounded in mist. Like a smooth sheet of silk that rubs against the landscape in millions of interwoven connections. I feel trapped, yet free to slide through the white entrapments like a spider of the forest.

Rustling around in corners I can see. Maybe leaves or rats or just my mind reminding me that I'm still awake and my ears still work.

I understood the challenge, but that didn't mean I was going to buy in to it. I hadn't lost that much sanity. Others would think I had backed out. But wasn't I already playing their game?

under

We sit under the trees, hidden from the wind. The helicopters whirr above. It feels like a different world. We're apart, detached. But my sun is your sun. You're just a little closer to it up there.

saved

Saved in the grey box that sits in front of me. I try to escape this prison but the warden will never release his grip. Always there to save me when I begin to jump.

A sponge and again I come back to my mind as a metaphor. My mind as a sponge or not so much any more. It got that dried up and smelly texture that can be reproduced by wiping up vomit and leaving the sponge in the sun to wrinkle and dry.

Whiskey. I received a bottle from my late grandfather once. It was called Blue Label. There isn't really anything more behind that story. We weren't close at all, though I know we really could have been. We were so similar.

mud

Mud. Does it splash or does it stick? Does it ooze or does it slide? Like an avalanche mud balls crash down on surprised tourist in their final moments. How wonderfully cruel mud is.

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writing since 2010 · 20 entries · 19 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means Tom showed up.

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19days written

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on this day 16 years ago

Tom wrote about under
“We sit under the trees, hidden from the wind. The helicopters whirr above. It feels like a different world. We're apart, detached. But my sun is your sun. You're just a little closer to it up there.”

the words Tom reaches for

mindsunslapnightabsencegreymudspongematchingwalkingrhythmcontinuednarrowpathdarkerminute