A narrative
My mind and heart get too restless in this mountains.
I write things of nonsense that have nothing to do with what I intended to write.
Oh well:
I've never much cared for the night sky, all alight with them stars looking down at me so critically, like I was some small speck and they were laughing at how pitiful my existence was. All million of them, all up there sneering down at me collectively, twinkling their amusement to each other like the kids who kicked me on the playground in elementary school. So my whole life I've avoided lookin' skywards on clear nights, cause I hate feeling like nothin' and them stars make me feel like that. My momma always told me that if I squinted my eyes together the stars would all fall in love and hasten to each other's arms, and then that inky black would become day and it would be nothin' to be scared of, but I never felt that way. I still knew that them stars were laughing at me, even if I squashed them all together and pretended they were something beautiful.
When I was seventeen he took me star gazin', that man of the milky limbs and tousled hair, all sand and froth like men of the sea often are. He had this fragile delicateness to him, something I could not put my finger on. He said he had a poet's soul, and I just laughed at him and told him that poets go nowhere in life, that he'd end up growing potatoes and raising cows like the rest of us country folk. Good folk, we are, of strong bones and short stature, sound of mind and passionate of heart. But somethin' inside of me took flight when he'd talk about words, and the very way he said things wove around me like his arms under those stars that he gazed at so enraptured. He would always talk in that soft voice of his, like the waves coming in and out, an endless tyrant of abrasion that wore through me and into my leathery teenage soul. He'd say things like, can you believe how small we are? And I'd pretend to agree with him and look at the stars, but I still hated them stars and I always watched him, instead. He'd get this look of utmost concentration on his face, a look I remember my brother havin' when he was trying to set fire to ants with his magnifying glass, but my sea man would have never have acted on such things. He was wild and free, like the wind across the plains that took up so suddenly and wrecked havoc on our crops. He was my wind.
And like the wind he left me one fall afternoon, with nothing but a look from his heavy lidded dark eyes. His eyes looked like the galaxy then, all midnight and fire, and it scared me so much I threw up after I watched his willowy form blow down the road. I had never hated someone so much as I hated him then, leaving me all alone heavy with child and terror, ripe with the knowin' of growing old. He had never been mine to hold, and I had been a fool to think so, because when it all came down to it he was only beautiful when I squinted.
I write things of nonsense that have nothing to do with what I intended to write.
Oh well:
I've never much cared for the night sky, all alight with them stars looking down at me so critically, like I was some small speck and they were laughing at how pitiful my existence was. All million of them, all up there sneering down at me collectively, twinkling their amusement to each other like the kids who kicked me on the playground in elementary school. So my whole life I've avoided lookin' skywards on clear nights, cause I hate feeling like nothin' and them stars make me feel like that. My momma always told me that if I squinted my eyes together the stars would all fall in love and hasten to each other's arms, and then that inky black would become day and it would be nothin' to be scared of, but I never felt that way. I still knew that them stars were laughing at me, even if I squashed them all together and pretended they were something beautiful.
When I was seventeen he took me star gazin', that man of the milky limbs and tousled hair, all sand and froth like men of the sea often are. He had this fragile delicateness to him, something I could not put my finger on. He said he had a poet's soul, and I just laughed at him and told him that poets go nowhere in life, that he'd end up growing potatoes and raising cows like the rest of us country folk. Good folk, we are, of strong bones and short stature, sound of mind and passionate of heart. But somethin' inside of me took flight when he'd talk about words, and the very way he said things wove around me like his arms under those stars that he gazed at so enraptured. He would always talk in that soft voice of his, like the waves coming in and out, an endless tyrant of abrasion that wore through me and into my leathery teenage soul. He'd say things like, can you believe how small we are? And I'd pretend to agree with him and look at the stars, but I still hated them stars and I always watched him, instead. He'd get this look of utmost concentration on his face, a look I remember my brother havin' when he was trying to set fire to ants with his magnifying glass, but my sea man would have never have acted on such things. He was wild and free, like the wind across the plains that took up so suddenly and wrecked havoc on our crops. He was my wind.
And like the wind he left me one fall afternoon, with nothing but a look from his heavy lidded dark eyes. His eyes looked like the galaxy then, all midnight and fire, and it scared me so much I threw up after I watched his willowy form blow down the road. I had never hated someone so much as I hated him then, leaving me all alone heavy with child and terror, ripe with the knowin' of growing old. He had never been mine to hold, and I had been a fool to think so, because when it all came down to it he was only beautiful when I squinted.