A Short Something To Stem the Whinging
I suppose the fact that the requisite New Year's post is ten days late in coming is significant in itself. Everything is late, everything is unfinished, everything is half-torn out and pasted back together into some ersatz simulacrum of its original self.
Going to the places I used to with the people I used to is like last year in sepia tone, the faded version of the unaltered original dragged out a year in time and space. A year of pain in the joints where the tendons stretch to meet the bone and the smile lines around the eyes become more pronounced as the worry marks about the mouth engraved in shadowed ivory become the chronicle of our fears.
What if every first had the same first name? How fortunate that all heartbreaks and stolen kisses and missteps can be neatly packaged into a singular prenom and shipped off to the junkyard where good names go to die.
Going to the places I used to with the people I used to is like last year in sepia tone, the faded version of the unaltered original dragged out a year in time and space. A year of pain in the joints where the tendons stretch to meet the bone and the smile lines around the eyes become more pronounced as the worry marks about the mouth engraved in shadowed ivory become the chronicle of our fears.
What if every first had the same first name? How fortunate that all heartbreaks and stolen kisses and missteps can be neatly packaged into a singular prenom and shipped off to the junkyard where good names go to die.