'the world is a stage, and we are all but players'
-the disagreement between the heart and the head-
part of me still thinks she is alive,
even though i saw a body they told me was hers
(it didnt look alive like she did)
a plastic and powder
mask on a mannequin,
an insult and a ruse and forensic evidence,
but not her.
something so great and wondrous
and so fragile
is life,
was she, i say in the past tense,
and now its just gone,
just not there anymore,
like the breath you just let out and yesterday's lunch
and the plastic on the curb, recycled.
like your innocence,
you just cant get it back,
its a one-time-only gift
that you dont even know you have
until it leaves a vacuum where it was
and a piece of your heart has to smooth over the gap
in existence, like a bandaid,
while it heals.
amputees say they feel the limb they lost thirty yeats ago
and a continent away,
that they reach down in the middle of the night
to scratch an itch that JUST CANT BE THERE,
but how could you tell them that? its there, to them.
...the innocence is gone, but the wonder, the wonder cant ever die...
life is lonely because no one can ever really know what it is to be you. we just guess and try to empathize and hope its good enough. really, i dont think anyone cares. they just wait for their time to talk, and they like to think they're good friends; it makes them happy to see your tears on their shoulder, it makes them feel holy and righteous and all manner of silly, egocentric things. it makes me so sad, so fucking sad, that we are so alone, blathering desperate idiots groping blindly in an orgiastic frenzy of self-loss while a desert world slips through our bony fingers, insolent in their desire for permanence, with that almost-silent 'shush' of falling sand made only by hourglasses ticking-away time and the lips of mothers as they quiet a crying child. if god made us, he is laughing (how could anything so fleeting and random and frivolous as humanity elicit anything else?), and i am laughing a happysick guffaw with him: i have lost the adolescent fire it takes to hate the inevitable, i have lost love, i have lost respect, i have lost sacredness and taboo. i don't even remember what my father was like anymore, all i have is strung-together snapshots that exist out of time, grainy 8mm home videos that, perplexingly, try to convince me they have some connection to a former sense of identity that i also seem to have misplaced.
everyone i know could die, and i would go on, because, really, what else can you do?
.even typing this is (almost) pointless. i only hope it touches someone's heart enough that for one fleeting second they forget the thousands of miles of apathy and greed and circumstance and desire and fear and worry and jealousy and socialized indifference and socio-economic caste-system rudeness and dogmatic societally-enforced gender-role drama and LIES that we have been fed and eaten, like starving, mangy dogs to sustain our tiny, blind, myopic distortions of a beautiful and giant world so THAT YOU, THE READER, WILL KNOW AND BELIEVE AND FEEL AND UNDERSTAND IN A BOLT OF LIGHTNING AND A CRASH OF THUNDER AND THE LAST BREATH OF EVERY ANCESTOR IN THEIR GRAVE AND THE FIRST HEARTBEAT OF EVERY CHILD CONCEIVED TONIGHT
THAT I
...............AM JUST
.............................LIKE
...............................................YOU.
how was that for a dramatic ending?
part of me still thinks she is alive,
even though i saw a body they told me was hers
(it didnt look alive like she did)
a plastic and powder
mask on a mannequin,
an insult and a ruse and forensic evidence,
but not her.
something so great and wondrous
and so fragile
is life,
was she, i say in the past tense,
and now its just gone,
just not there anymore,
like the breath you just let out and yesterday's lunch
and the plastic on the curb, recycled.
like your innocence,
you just cant get it back,
its a one-time-only gift
that you dont even know you have
until it leaves a vacuum where it was
and a piece of your heart has to smooth over the gap
in existence, like a bandaid,
while it heals.
amputees say they feel the limb they lost thirty yeats ago
and a continent away,
that they reach down in the middle of the night
to scratch an itch that JUST CANT BE THERE,
but how could you tell them that? its there, to them.
...the innocence is gone, but the wonder, the wonder cant ever die...
life is lonely because no one can ever really know what it is to be you. we just guess and try to empathize and hope its good enough. really, i dont think anyone cares. they just wait for their time to talk, and they like to think they're good friends; it makes them happy to see your tears on their shoulder, it makes them feel holy and righteous and all manner of silly, egocentric things. it makes me so sad, so fucking sad, that we are so alone, blathering desperate idiots groping blindly in an orgiastic frenzy of self-loss while a desert world slips through our bony fingers, insolent in their desire for permanence, with that almost-silent 'shush' of falling sand made only by hourglasses ticking-away time and the lips of mothers as they quiet a crying child. if god made us, he is laughing (how could anything so fleeting and random and frivolous as humanity elicit anything else?), and i am laughing a happysick guffaw with him: i have lost the adolescent fire it takes to hate the inevitable, i have lost love, i have lost respect, i have lost sacredness and taboo. i don't even remember what my father was like anymore, all i have is strung-together snapshots that exist out of time, grainy 8mm home videos that, perplexingly, try to convince me they have some connection to a former sense of identity that i also seem to have misplaced.
everyone i know could die, and i would go on, because, really, what else can you do?
.even typing this is (almost) pointless. i only hope it touches someone's heart enough that for one fleeting second they forget the thousands of miles of apathy and greed and circumstance and desire and fear and worry and jealousy and socialized indifference and socio-economic caste-system rudeness and dogmatic societally-enforced gender-role drama and LIES that we have been fed and eaten, like starving, mangy dogs to sustain our tiny, blind, myopic distortions of a beautiful and giant world so THAT YOU, THE READER, WILL KNOW AND BELIEVE AND FEEL AND UNDERSTAND IN A BOLT OF LIGHTNING AND A CRASH OF THUNDER AND THE LAST BREATH OF EVERY ANCESTOR IN THEIR GRAVE AND THE FIRST HEARTBEAT OF EVERY CHILD CONCEIVED TONIGHT
THAT I
...............AM JUST
.............................LIKE
...............................................YOU.
how was that for a dramatic ending?