(no subject)
and she's feeling out of place, like she's snuck down the stairs to watch the adults carouse, laughing, they part of some edacious culture she worries she'll never understand. because she's seven-years-old again, and as much as she longs to recoil from a world of double digits, she knows she doesn't belong in childhood, either. her cousins sat in their mother's lap listening to peter rabbit, while she would flick the dog-eared corner of a dusty old paperback reading
a song of the rolling earth, and of words according,
were you thinking that those were the words, those upright lines? those curves, angles, dots?
no, those are not the words, the substantial words are in the ground and sea,
they are in the air, they are in you.
whoever you are! motion and reflection are especially for you,
the divine ship sails the divine sea for you.
whoever you are! you are he or she for whom the earth is solid and liquid,
you are he or she for whom the sun and moon hang in the sky,
for none more than you are the present and the past,
for none more than you is immortality.
to herself.
and when children were believing that all they could dream could be, she began dreaming the unbelievable, thinking that was perfect for her. after all, what's a fantasy that has any hope of coming true? not nearly real enough...
she and walt were always such impenitent renegades.
now she thinks she might like to burn her life down, start over from scratch, but she can't stand the smell of smoke -- only campfires, tempered by night air and nostalgia. nothing in particular wrong, just breathing, living, so much older, so much older than she ever meant to be. she's chewed away her bottom lip, hoping to satiate guilt with her own bruised flesh; she's supposed to see the beautiful in everything for everyone, you see. but where's her own? no one watches that close. they see her smile, and it says "this is enough."
but she can't defend her eyes when they slink away, out of focus, so unsure of what they're seeing. this moment is yellow, this one brilliant blue... mornings are orange before the day dances away trailing pale shades of purple and red. try to live them all together, and everything becomes a hollow wave of black on black, the color of all her experience.
she is nascent.
a song of the rolling earth, and of words according,
were you thinking that those were the words, those upright lines? those curves, angles, dots?
no, those are not the words, the substantial words are in the ground and sea,
they are in the air, they are in you.
whoever you are! motion and reflection are especially for you,
the divine ship sails the divine sea for you.
whoever you are! you are he or she for whom the earth is solid and liquid,
you are he or she for whom the sun and moon hang in the sky,
for none more than you are the present and the past,
for none more than you is immortality.
to herself.
and when children were believing that all they could dream could be, she began dreaming the unbelievable, thinking that was perfect for her. after all, what's a fantasy that has any hope of coming true? not nearly real enough...
she and walt were always such impenitent renegades.
now she thinks she might like to burn her life down, start over from scratch, but she can't stand the smell of smoke -- only campfires, tempered by night air and nostalgia. nothing in particular wrong, just breathing, living, so much older, so much older than she ever meant to be. she's chewed away her bottom lip, hoping to satiate guilt with her own bruised flesh; she's supposed to see the beautiful in everything for everyone, you see. but where's her own? no one watches that close. they see her smile, and it says "this is enough."
but she can't defend her eyes when they slink away, out of focus, so unsure of what they're seeing. this moment is yellow, this one brilliant blue... mornings are orange before the day dances away trailing pale shades of purple and red. try to live them all together, and everything becomes a hollow wave of black on black, the color of all her experience.
she is nascent.