astronaut
:Season of the Astronaut
-declared to nourish the itch in the smooth folds of my tendons. it's the same every summer's end. the world becomes beautiful, quiet, young and old. cold. so much. unbearingly so! i itch. when i'm calm, i'd like to (to be sure, the only thing i can ever dream to) wait and watch, send breaths of cigarette smoke, pushing and spreading, lifting, past my lips and nostrels, replacing and mixing with cold fresh air. delightfully so!
this is the only season in which i can be sad and perfectly content, under the pretext that nothing is being missed because the world, for this forgiving season, brings all it's thoughts and concepts and idea to us, presented quietly, respectful if we listen, respectful if we don't, and our joy hangs in the cold air, under our nose. i even choose to tie it between a scarf.
although i'm afraid i may have altogether lost the ability to expand my vocabulary, i have enjoyed watching 8mm films, seeing my grandparents when they were young, inwardly bitter or sprained and peaceful. failing to read their lips and silent gestures only further emphasizes the fact that my eyes don't recognize information. i certainly feel alone and, honestly, afraid, being so disconnected to stimulations and explanations, but this film is getting worn, scratched, cracked
"You don't have to worry,"
maybe faster then i am. chances are, really, that i'll never die.
i mean
the odds are good.
-declared to nourish the itch in the smooth folds of my tendons. it's the same every summer's end. the world becomes beautiful, quiet, young and old. cold. so much. unbearingly so! i itch. when i'm calm, i'd like to (to be sure, the only thing i can ever dream to) wait and watch, send breaths of cigarette smoke, pushing and spreading, lifting, past my lips and nostrels, replacing and mixing with cold fresh air. delightfully so!
this is the only season in which i can be sad and perfectly content, under the pretext that nothing is being missed because the world, for this forgiving season, brings all it's thoughts and concepts and idea to us, presented quietly, respectful if we listen, respectful if we don't, and our joy hangs in the cold air, under our nose. i even choose to tie it between a scarf.
although i'm afraid i may have altogether lost the ability to expand my vocabulary, i have enjoyed watching 8mm films, seeing my grandparents when they were young, inwardly bitter or sprained and peaceful. failing to read their lips and silent gestures only further emphasizes the fact that my eyes don't recognize information. i certainly feel alone and, honestly, afraid, being so disconnected to stimulations and explanations, but this film is getting worn, scratched, cracked
"You don't have to worry,"
maybe faster then i am. chances are, really, that i'll never die.
i mean
the odds are good.