Mmmm winter.
I appreciate the cold in a way I think few people can. The cold is powerful, impassionate. To stand up and embrace the cold is to go to bed with Ghengis Khan. You are worshipping and being pleasured by a force that much greater than you, that you can't help but feel both less and more insignficant. A duality that draws up the divisions of life, allows us to identify, sharpens the focus in our view. I can't help but imagine myself as both the branches and the wind whipping through the matte night and alerting sensual messengers under fleets of hairs.
Crisp, clean and cool, eliminating excess, clearing out refuse, taking a vacation from the syncopated spin of life--
Yes. It is cold.
I am alive. Yes.
And on another note, Happy Birthday, my beloved redhead (my Ist Mr. IV)
I imagine had I ever been truly young, and had my mother not utterly detested them, I might have worn pig tails in my youth. Then I could sit here thousands of miles from you and relive memories of us pawing sloppily at each other under Gertrude's desk with all our classmates standing absurdly guard and with ridiculous scrunchied, top-of-the-head pigtails bumbling around. Alas the pigtails are merely a whimsical excess of memory among a scramble of images from so long ago.
It still feels weird around you, you know? It shouldn't, but I guess for all that was wrapped up or all that simple dissipated with time, you are still a persistence through the years (13 is it already if we start at 4th?) How odd to have known someone so well, to find you still understand them, but to not actually have been around for any of the major continuities of life that pass as we go along. Can you trust your judgement?
Miss you, love.
I trust my judgement.
I'll stop by soon.
(Once I can afford the airfare)
Crisp, clean and cool, eliminating excess, clearing out refuse, taking a vacation from the syncopated spin of life--
Yes. It is cold.
I am alive. Yes.
And on another note, Happy Birthday, my beloved redhead (my Ist Mr. IV)
I imagine had I ever been truly young, and had my mother not utterly detested them, I might have worn pig tails in my youth. Then I could sit here thousands of miles from you and relive memories of us pawing sloppily at each other under Gertrude's desk with all our classmates standing absurdly guard and with ridiculous scrunchied, top-of-the-head pigtails bumbling around. Alas the pigtails are merely a whimsical excess of memory among a scramble of images from so long ago.
It still feels weird around you, you know? It shouldn't, but I guess for all that was wrapped up or all that simple dissipated with time, you are still a persistence through the years (13 is it already if we start at 4th?) How odd to have known someone so well, to find you still understand them, but to not actually have been around for any of the major continuities of life that pass as we go along. Can you trust your judgement?
Miss you, love.
I trust my judgement.
I'll stop by soon.
(Once I can afford the airfare)