you will not mistake me
Before anything, I am inspired by:
THE THING IS BY ELLEN BASS
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
KESERU, ROMANIA 07/08
Dear ,
I miss knowing exactly what to say.
The weather in April is temperamental. It is subdued with wind that drapes buildings like my mother's chiffon; it is suffocating with its ballooning womb of moisture. It rightfully illustrates the month of transition, which has always been for me: passive aggressive, demure, stunning. I am ceaselessly vigilant for that one word which is not only appropriate but complementary, but I haven't found it yet.
3:58 AM, the clock perpetually reads. My head is immersed in surges of voices until the sky pales to the color of my child love's eye. In the heart of the stillness, I always try to rush into the sun, as if my introspection will dissolve with daybreak. But the few who comprehend will attest, it always feels like home, the between-hours. It's hard to inhale sometimes, in the daily storm, and nighttime only requires that you breathe. It asks for no explanation, no words.
I am solidifying - I am getting reacquainted with myself and leaving room for remodeling, for error. Every day, I'm uncovering more from both today and yesterday. If you were to ask me how I've been, I would tell you, I've been learning. I've been content. I've been in transition.
Above all, I've missed me.
THE THING IS BY ELLEN BASS
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
KESERU, ROMANIA 07/08
Dear ,
I miss knowing exactly what to say.
The weather in April is temperamental. It is subdued with wind that drapes buildings like my mother's chiffon; it is suffocating with its ballooning womb of moisture. It rightfully illustrates the month of transition, which has always been for me: passive aggressive, demure, stunning. I am ceaselessly vigilant for that one word which is not only appropriate but complementary, but I haven't found it yet.
3:58 AM, the clock perpetually reads. My head is immersed in surges of voices until the sky pales to the color of my child love's eye. In the heart of the stillness, I always try to rush into the sun, as if my introspection will dissolve with daybreak. But the few who comprehend will attest, it always feels like home, the between-hours. It's hard to inhale sometimes, in the daily storm, and nighttime only requires that you breathe. It asks for no explanation, no words.
I am solidifying - I am getting reacquainted with myself and leaving room for remodeling, for error. Every day, I'm uncovering more from both today and yesterday. If you were to ask me how I've been, I would tell you, I've been learning. I've been content. I've been in transition.
Above all, I've missed me.