I scrape across these ragged edges of text as if they were the sea – bottomless, capable of the most massive amounts of human emotion – and then I come to a stop. Like so many moments before.
It’s subtle this time – unlike the last when my feet came screeching to a clamorous halt and I gave myself this headache that lasted for “like 90 days – no joke.”
This time I slide. Sliding is funny because you don’t feel the end and it doesn’t bite.
Sliding is like laughing, or yawning.
Or jumping on a giant trampolene.
Sliding is sort of like understanding – with out all the neurons and the key chains jingling in your ears.
I like sliding- softly slowly.
I envision myself like this – slopped up in a bowl of milk – maybe I’m the cereal? but my sides don’t feel hard.
It’s okay – I still know where I land, and as I approach I chant to myself:
“I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care”
as if those words alone will keep me there in that black milky abyss.
as if my refusal to relate could stop the cycle and time would finally be on my side – for once.
“we had a date”
we all have a date – or once had a date. and will expire and renew expire and renew until this vacuous current takes pity or gets bored. and this is the lesson we all want to teach and preach and send like bullets into each others brains or hearts until someone learns
to listen.
But what a waste of time… “enjoy the ride” says some slogan on someone’s beat up van, scarred with years of wear and tear from adventures and late night contemplations – evidence of a body’s experience.
“if only I could get me some I could, I would, I could.”
I don’t think I’ll ever understand why these words don’t matter.
Why no matter how furiously I scrabble to the beat of my own drum, someone elses clock will be keeping time and my rhythm will never truly be mine.
If we are all elemental then why doesn’t somebody throw a tornado on my ass. Tear me up? Make me swear and wince and care?
It’s time for demolition.
It’s time for someone to support my superstition.
It’s time for what I see and what I feel to match up- paint a picture of me. Maybe include something true: some friends, a heart, a family. But the rest could be lies. Make it pretty I don’t care – as long as you make it something rare.
