(no subject)
Boredom and slight sadness are a dangerous combination - possibly even riskier than vinegar and baking soda. I was a weekend, a sitting John Wilkes Booth in a theatre chair through the first act, twiddling a set of clumsy thumbs with my trigger fingers crisscrossing each other like two newlyweds asleep in their newly made bed. There’s a ropeswing hanging from a bonsai tree, there’s a white wedding dress slid through a napkin ring, wrapped around a chair in the corner of the house I always wanted. Praise and consonants nap around and wait to be filtered out of my alphabet soup until they are laid on the place mat with all the harsh sounds leaving my mouth at once in a swell comparable to an urban street at rush hour, the five o’ clock release for the proletariat. It’s curtains for me, dear, in the best way possible. The longer I stayed in that dark room, the more the light I thought wasn’t there to begin with became apparent.