rbraithwaite
On my forehead, from your lower lip (the upper never really connected). On my stomach from the time you hit me with a softball bat. On my mind from the time you told me reincarnation was the echo of our conscious and subconscious minds shaking hands. I feel the soft indentation of your pressed fingers, the remaining prints, all over my body. They are so soft, but the mark doesn't fade.
Must be working on inside issues that don't come with personal happiness, inside issues that raise doubts about who I am and what is going on and why am I not part of the party! Thus, I must DO something. Achtung! Alert! Wake up! But to nothing real, to nothing that needs an alert.
Is not what I'm working with.
Is not what I am.
It is, though, what I seek to seek.
What I wish to worship, and what I want to be known for.
I am, however, short.
Short on the sublime, and short on ways to pull back the mask, ways to find something beyond.
I am looking to look, but am mired in the mush of today.
and his sharp, snarky comments about how she had barely ever paid any attention in all of those classes in lower school on mythology. there were too many names, she complained, you know i cant do names. he would always just roll his eyes and tell her it was cause really, she just never paid any attention, and then she'd glare, and somehow they'd end up wrapped up around one another. but tonight, it had somehow devolved into a real sort of fight in which he wouldn't stop insulting her and she wouldn't stop sulking.
Taken back in imagination to what was once done, and the significance it plays on my life now, can be reassuring, can wrap me safely in the semblance of a net that says, "see, there is metaphorical value in what others did before." But really, isn't that my own interpretation of what I want in my own life, and now I've attached someone else's etcha-sketch images to my life?