(no subject)
.wordless.
It tends to be quite a unique feeling, when your own wordlessness pushes you to speak. When you have said the same words over and over in your own head, that they fall flat when…
Because it is really not thoughts, is it? It’s not the words that travel. You live feeling to feeling and intangible bodily sensations that fall to names nonetheless. You wonder, though, did you learn the names first? Perhaps you found a sheet of labels and now play a game of sticking them to different parts. Where does it look better? Which shall be center, you wonder.
You can say you don’t care. You can say it really well.
And it is hard, you know, to do something new. It is not all toast and jam. And it is not all timeless. These things will age, you know, they will harden. It won’t be so easy to spring out of bed, and deal with the smudges of eyeliner. Your clothes will look more wrinkled in the pile you threw them on when you came home. And whose little toy will you be then?
It won’t be so easy to crack the tension away, or run out of the house to sit with friends.
You know. You know. You wish that people would know that you cared about them, without having to do anything. So you could stay all day in bed. You wish you could be swept off of your feet. Or absorbed.
Perhaps you should stop pretending someone is holding you. Perhaps you should stop pretending that someone will warm you.
You are generally a selfish person. You wish to do good. But do not end up doing much at all. And what feeling is that, when you work beyond your own limits? What are these people talking about? With portrait days, and coordinated families, and these American sit-com decors. You critical bitch.
If only people would feel closer. If only you could feel someone trying to reach. But we are all passive and tired. And the borders that surround you require a lot of conviction to tamper with.