boogie nights
i am overwhelmed by words. there are days that go by without the sound of human voices. i am living in silence, i am waiting to be swallowed whole. i sleep, ignore the phone, become too warm, wake up with chills. what is it that makes me want to put my head down and cry into my palms. what is it that makes me want to fold up my heart, bury myself in the ground, stop breathing.
the last few ugly words bury themselves beneath this empty battlefield. i make it to the bed, the sheets are cold. the sky in this story is holding its arms wide open; the sky a synonym for death. that is how it happens; someone opens up their hand, another forgets.
If you don't get out of bed this morning, you will have to hold the weight of your sadness in a single breath. Your head against the window, you will watch the city weep with rain. Sometimes the whole world is drowning. Unable to bear the thought of anyone having to live their life so muted by being underwater, you assume the role of a saint, a martyr who stands up for their cause, instead, by remaining alive. And if a man can be saved if only someone bothers to love him enough, this is why you will live and love; this is how you'll wake up each morning, this is how you'll endure. Because you are not living for yourself and she is living because of you, who is taking care of whom?
we are taught to bury ourselves alive. we suffocate under the weight of identity. we survive by recognition, absolution; we feel because we have no choice. and when the wool is pulled off, we discover how easy it is to slip into the spaces of anonymity. we realize that without eye contact, the limitations become elastic. chemicals and brick walls and unconsciousness destroy the obligation of feeling. and when one has built their life above the things that make them hurt, the ability to feel becomes disintegration rather than reconstruction. the body learns how to take a fist in the face without flinching. the heart understands the safety in staying closed. the brain teaches itself to deny the possibility of unconditional love. cold, remove the chance of grief's warm breath. we surround ourselves with faces and words so that we cannot be touched. what happens when the lights turn off? what happens when the words slip into the margins?
the last few ugly words bury themselves beneath this empty battlefield. i make it to the bed, the sheets are cold. the sky in this story is holding its arms wide open; the sky a synonym for death. that is how it happens; someone opens up their hand, another forgets.
If you don't get out of bed this morning, you will have to hold the weight of your sadness in a single breath. Your head against the window, you will watch the city weep with rain. Sometimes the whole world is drowning. Unable to bear the thought of anyone having to live their life so muted by being underwater, you assume the role of a saint, a martyr who stands up for their cause, instead, by remaining alive. And if a man can be saved if only someone bothers to love him enough, this is why you will live and love; this is how you'll wake up each morning, this is how you'll endure. Because you are not living for yourself and she is living because of you, who is taking care of whom?
we are taught to bury ourselves alive. we suffocate under the weight of identity. we survive by recognition, absolution; we feel because we have no choice. and when the wool is pulled off, we discover how easy it is to slip into the spaces of anonymity. we realize that without eye contact, the limitations become elastic. chemicals and brick walls and unconsciousness destroy the obligation of feeling. and when one has built their life above the things that make them hurt, the ability to feel becomes disintegration rather than reconstruction. the body learns how to take a fist in the face without flinching. the heart understands the safety in staying closed. the brain teaches itself to deny the possibility of unconditional love. cold, remove the chance of grief's warm breath. we surround ourselves with faces and words so that we cannot be touched. what happens when the lights turn off? what happens when the words slip into the margins?