miserable joy
This is a time of infinite possibilities, of twisted roads to every uncharted point you never knew you wanted to visit. It's not a merry time, an easy time, a quiet time. It's hissing and bucking like a firehose and you just know it's trying to fuck up your ability to quell the burn in your belly. And you can taste failure on the backs of your teeth, failure to hide from your own disappointments and fears. You can plead with every coil for it to turn out, but it's moot, so you stay quiet instead. Aware even chewing your lip is too obvious, you light up a cigarette since you can't lighten up yourself. Pronounce words in the dark, like what's the point with no question mark. Flat. What's the point. Glare at the stabs of light that managed to penetrate the shades, make dramatic gutteral noises expressing just how done you are with the whole mess. Get it all blown away by a burnt, dry little breakfast on a shuddering tray behind which a beaming, beautiful face looks at once proud and apprehensive, and hopeful that daddy'll like it and be happy. And then you are. You fucking well are. And burnt toast never tasted so good.
A moment of genius flattens you. An exchange by someone whose been on earth for less time than many of your shoes tells you that being unsure of what's going to happen next is the greatest gift that life has to offer because he likes not turning the page before he's finished it and spoiling all of the unwrapping of words. And this is like not turning the page. And there are all of these ribbons of words and times and things and places and days and suddenly everything distorts in front of the tears in your eyes and you can't imagine feeling wretched today.
There is no injustice anyone can visit upon you that is more serious or devastating than the ones you can visit upon yourself by simply not standing up. Everything's distorted when you're looking at it from the floor.
A moment of genius flattens you. An exchange by someone whose been on earth for less time than many of your shoes tells you that being unsure of what's going to happen next is the greatest gift that life has to offer because he likes not turning the page before he's finished it and spoiling all of the unwrapping of words. And this is like not turning the page. And there are all of these ribbons of words and times and things and places and days and suddenly everything distorts in front of the tears in your eyes and you can't imagine feeling wretched today.
There is no injustice anyone can visit upon you that is more serious or devastating than the ones you can visit upon yourself by simply not standing up. Everything's distorted when you're looking at it from the floor.