doubt in the time of Aries
It's raining outside. It's raining inside, too. The fine droplets collect about my heart, like frills to shimmy with; but they'll never reach my tear ducts. Still, they bind me. They are too heavy and I'm too out of touch to dance. A hint of doubt and deceit, and I'm derailed. I crave to be omniscient. But that will never happen, and so I'm lost, and I can't stand it. I want to be a third person voice, tell my story: a fairy tale, a happy end with a proper sunset. I want to be a member of the wrinkled old couple holding hands, and they die at the same time, because they want their particles to stay together and cuddle in the ambivalent breeze.
Love for me is more than a distraction. I lose myself in it. I could give everything up for it. But the fear is strong, the fear that I will lose something, everything really. I know just how real the possibility is. I know what a lie is and that the most convincing lie is the one that cloaks itself in truth. The one that is told for love.
Sometimes I wonder if I should drop it all. Become an old maid. Stick my nose in a book. Cut off my arm.
The thunder is the only thing I know is real right now. It always returns, and always makes the same demands. It delivers on its promises--at least eventually. It isn't love, though. I can't hold it, or taste it. Unless it's the voice of a god, or a divine hammer striking. Such things are fancy tales, fairy tales, but then those are my only lasting hope. Back to those lies again, the stories we tell children to enliven their worlds, to give them justice and magic together.
My dreams are haunting me lately, warning me of failure, of misdirection.
Love for me is more than a distraction. I lose myself in it. I could give everything up for it. But the fear is strong, the fear that I will lose something, everything really. I know just how real the possibility is. I know what a lie is and that the most convincing lie is the one that cloaks itself in truth. The one that is told for love.
Sometimes I wonder if I should drop it all. Become an old maid. Stick my nose in a book. Cut off my arm.
The thunder is the only thing I know is real right now. It always returns, and always makes the same demands. It delivers on its promises--at least eventually. It isn't love, though. I can't hold it, or taste it. Unless it's the voice of a god, or a divine hammer striking. Such things are fancy tales, fairy tales, but then those are my only lasting hope. Back to those lies again, the stories we tell children to enliven their worlds, to give them justice and magic together.
My dreams are haunting me lately, warning me of failure, of misdirection.