Forget models and starlets, only words are beautiful like this
I've been doing some writing of late about certain aspects of my life or, perhaps, certain people and, as per usual, I can't decide where to save it on my computer (or if to save it, though I don't want to lose the work) so I've decided I'm going to post it here, so I won't lose it but I don't have to worry about saving it and it will no longer just be sitting on my desktop. So, voila:
Post-"Breakfast at Tiffany's"
I forgot what it was like when words were so beautiful, so crystal sharp that they bit at my insides and made me cry, humbled, in the middle of the night. If it could always be like this, so clear, so reverent, mouthing strangers’ words into the silence of the darkness… Feeling as if God himself were pulling at my heartstrings, playing them like a well-tuned harpsichord, notes ringing out true, radiating out. And I am the black words indented onto white page and I am the darkness that has fallen down over the world, the winter-dark, the frozen dead-dark and I am the sound of the leaves whispering as they fall a wall and yards away and I can hear them, the gentle rasp of their song as they fall, fall, fall. I am everything as the words pour through me, each exquisite word, each toothsome syllable. They are freeing and I am free, free, free, and please can everything always feel like this? Like crisp sips of purest water bitten into sentences, into paragraphs, into stanzas, oh the stanzas. When words were beautiful. Forgotten with such unbearable ease.
Post-"Breakfast at Tiffany's"
I forgot what it was like when words were so beautiful, so crystal sharp that they bit at my insides and made me cry, humbled, in the middle of the night. If it could always be like this, so clear, so reverent, mouthing strangers’ words into the silence of the darkness… Feeling as if God himself were pulling at my heartstrings, playing them like a well-tuned harpsichord, notes ringing out true, radiating out. And I am the black words indented onto white page and I am the darkness that has fallen down over the world, the winter-dark, the frozen dead-dark and I am the sound of the leaves whispering as they fall a wall and yards away and I can hear them, the gentle rasp of their song as they fall, fall, fall. I am everything as the words pour through me, each exquisite word, each toothsome syllable. They are freeing and I am free, free, free, and please can everything always feel like this? Like crisp sips of purest water bitten into sentences, into paragraphs, into stanzas, oh the stanzas. When words were beautiful. Forgotten with such unbearable ease.