strayheart
De-light. A reminder that the lamplighter can blow it out.
De-light. Strange how a word expressing passion and happiness seems to nullify "light" emotions by name.
Or is it "da-light"? I see da light.
Pixels? No, read: "pick cells." Photoshop is plastic surgery, graphic designers are geneticists.
My father equates objects to memories. His sentimentality has piled up in the form of boxes filled with wires that no longer have hookups, useless documents from the first job he held at seventeen, crushed Christmas ornaments, misplaced Monopoly pieces, eyeless dolls, fake musty flowers, a broken keyboard, cracked plant pots I bang my hips into when I go downstairs to get the laundry. Just today I found my first computer, still plugged in. When I turned it on I had to wait half an hour for the startup screen. It took nearly fifteen minutes to open "My Documents", and another fifteen to open a folder filled with thumbnails of photos from my childhood. I didn't bother to expand them, but squinted at them for a while. Then I shut down the computer. I spent another twenty minutes ruminating about how very different the "me" shown in those pixels was, because the computer was too ancient to remember how to shut down. Eventually, I just pulled the plug and went back upstairs, thinking that I should throw that computer out. One day.
Ghosts, sticking out their hands to you, but you draw away as if they are trying to drag you down to Hell. You thought you recognized one long ago so now you avert your gaze. If you don't look, they don't exist, and they will fade into the concrete, disappear behind the bustle of the busy street.
But remember this: late some night, once you've closed your eyes and slowed your breathing, after you've pulled the covers up to your chin and stretched your legs far down the cool sheets -- then you will think of them again, and they will haunt you.
I went to a rather expensive dinner event in support of homelessness once. We pecked at olive tapenade and châteaubriand while staring at photos of the "less fortunate", wondering why we couldn't picture ourselves in their shoes.
I tried really hard, but all I can come up with is: The Brotherhood of the Traveling Pants. I'm imagining that part where the girls are all like "Omg these make my butt look great!!!" but starring the guys I know. Someone should totally write that book as a commentary on gender stereotypes.
Aaaaaaaand I just googled it. Omg.
Sorry, Eliot; we've still yet to heal our Fisher King.
"Humanity’s purpose is for procreation; therefore, our lives are barren."
Humanity's purpose is for procreation; our lives are barren.
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writing since 2012 · 22 entries · 16 days shown up
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