Backdrops
Cycling through photos, it seems like such a long time ago, in some foriegn lands that had perfumed air and singing seemed to float upon the breeze. I went into the desert and came back, but no one wanted to take me in, so I built a home from branches, from mud, from the earth itself and I live there, now and forever. I listen to the chattering of spiders, to the creaking of crickets and fall asleep among my ruinous possesions. The air seems so different here.
I sometimes sit in my single room and sing songs to myself, songs that remind me of the places we were, the places we went, the places where we were going. I lose my conviction more often than not, and lose the tune and fall apart. I usually end up curled up on the floor, whispering to the dust motes and birds that roost in my roof, asking to see you one more time. I couldn't bear to see you though, it would crush me, so I simply ask for the snow to fall again, so I can lose myself in the cold.
I will spend years, decades, centuries alone here, in my simple home. I will grow old and my beard will grow long and white, and my back will bend over with the weight of guilt, with the weight of my own shame and humilation, and my eyes will grow smaller than they already are, flat black disks hovering in the tiny ocean of blue that still surrounds them. I will stand upon the hill behind my home and I will watch the clouds, I will curse the villages, the towns, the cities between us; but I know it is of no use, for you have gone for some time now.
Maybe one day, I will wake up lighter than the chains that bind me to my home, my bitterness, my loneliness. I will float along some river that is warm and gentle, and then I will be at peace, until that time though, I will continue on my heretic path. I still have dreams about you, in a cabin I built for us, a proud cabin with a fireplace. You sit by the fireplace, bathed in the warmth and glow, but you also radiate light and heat, it is hard to look at you sometimes, because my eyes water and I know I am unworthy, so unworthy of what you give to me. I wake up from these dreams shouting into the night air, with sweat clinging to me in terrible rivulets. I get out of bed and stare at my walls, wondering when I will finally let go, but it's too hard to lose something that is so wonderful and at the same time, so terrible.
My romanticism will be my undoing.
I sometimes sit in my single room and sing songs to myself, songs that remind me of the places we were, the places we went, the places where we were going. I lose my conviction more often than not, and lose the tune and fall apart. I usually end up curled up on the floor, whispering to the dust motes and birds that roost in my roof, asking to see you one more time. I couldn't bear to see you though, it would crush me, so I simply ask for the snow to fall again, so I can lose myself in the cold.
I will spend years, decades, centuries alone here, in my simple home. I will grow old and my beard will grow long and white, and my back will bend over with the weight of guilt, with the weight of my own shame and humilation, and my eyes will grow smaller than they already are, flat black disks hovering in the tiny ocean of blue that still surrounds them. I will stand upon the hill behind my home and I will watch the clouds, I will curse the villages, the towns, the cities between us; but I know it is of no use, for you have gone for some time now.
Maybe one day, I will wake up lighter than the chains that bind me to my home, my bitterness, my loneliness. I will float along some river that is warm and gentle, and then I will be at peace, until that time though, I will continue on my heretic path. I still have dreams about you, in a cabin I built for us, a proud cabin with a fireplace. You sit by the fireplace, bathed in the warmth and glow, but you also radiate light and heat, it is hard to look at you sometimes, because my eyes water and I know I am unworthy, so unworthy of what you give to me. I wake up from these dreams shouting into the night air, with sweat clinging to me in terrible rivulets. I get out of bed and stare at my walls, wondering when I will finally let go, but it's too hard to lose something that is so wonderful and at the same time, so terrible.
My romanticism will be my undoing.