(no subject)
write it down
My notebooks, you're losing reception; your struggles to channel me back to the places you once brought me have become utter failures. Are you dead when nobody is paging through you? Does the past need to sneak its glances just to look at you? Because so seldom am I satisfied with the glances that I take in hindsight.
My interior is now the pity that I pride myself in. The decisions I've made dance in tiptoed circles around the few ideas I still even attempt to entertain. They're becoming immortalized as the symbols of my brittle volition, my flawed free-will. Let go of them, tighten the bite you've got around the nerves you've been teething on. My nerve's been orphaned; I can't help but notice it when this, this and that could have all become something else; could've been avoided entirely; could've figured themselves out completely.
The uncouth words and colloquoy I've been putting forth are now speaking louder than ever - for the sake of misinterpretation.
They wanted to tell you that I stopped feeling your sunlight stretch across the hairs on the backs of my arms. I stopped feeling it crawl down the sides of my neck. I stopped feeling it as soon as it was established that some vacuous obligation was required for us to survive in each others' company. I can't do a thing about it, so from now on I'll try to catch myself from slipping mid-sentence; maybe when I'm on the verge of spilling some secret or some toilsome detail of my past.
And instead, I'll spill a few brainless one-liners and offer up the last weak chuckle I can muster from whatever clarity I've been trying to fake. And I'll write it down. And I'll try to laugh.
And I'll write it down.
My notebooks, you're losing reception; your struggles to channel me back to the places you once brought me have become utter failures. Are you dead when nobody is paging through you? Does the past need to sneak its glances just to look at you? Because so seldom am I satisfied with the glances that I take in hindsight.
My interior is now the pity that I pride myself in. The decisions I've made dance in tiptoed circles around the few ideas I still even attempt to entertain. They're becoming immortalized as the symbols of my brittle volition, my flawed free-will. Let go of them, tighten the bite you've got around the nerves you've been teething on. My nerve's been orphaned; I can't help but notice it when this, this and that could have all become something else; could've been avoided entirely; could've figured themselves out completely.
The uncouth words and colloquoy I've been putting forth are now speaking louder than ever - for the sake of misinterpretation.
They wanted to tell you that I stopped feeling your sunlight stretch across the hairs on the backs of my arms. I stopped feeling it crawl down the sides of my neck. I stopped feeling it as soon as it was established that some vacuous obligation was required for us to survive in each others' company. I can't do a thing about it, so from now on I'll try to catch myself from slipping mid-sentence; maybe when I'm on the verge of spilling some secret or some toilsome detail of my past.
And instead, I'll spill a few brainless one-liners and offer up the last weak chuckle I can muster from whatever clarity I've been trying to fake. And I'll write it down. And I'll try to laugh.
And I'll write it down.