(no subject)
Last night I dreamed I was in a younger version of myself with a younger version of my sister. We were both smaller. Our bedroom, colored the same soft dusky blue and flat white as I have always remembered it in my sleep. We were agreeing to maintain our clutter with in-baskets for our desks. Placing foreign objects with the other as they appeared. Refraining from an intrusive rearrangement of items. Attempting to avoid a future breach of trust. Attempting to keep our spaces jointly harmonious. Or as close to it as possible.
Afterwards she went to school and I to my mother's room next door: dark maroon, pale pink and mint. Black-edged paisley and the deepest red wood. She, a tornado of fury in complementing tones. Throwing her clothes into the dresser, practically kicking the laundry to the wall. Not yelling but practically so, not even wanting me there. Me seeing as I did, as a teenager, her anger as a porous wall, filled with the holes of her doubt but standing regardless. An imposing structure even for its fault lines.
I am as a mirror now, propped up, still reflective, cracked and sharded from the stress of being bent.
When I was small I used to demand she sing this song:
There is a ship
and she sails the seas
She's loaded deep
as deep can be
But not as deep as the love I'm in
The river is wide
I cannot get o'er
Neither have I
the wings to fly
Give me a boat
That can carry two
And both shall row
My love and I
It's a quiet song sung in a minor key, by a low voice I can hardly remember outside sleep anymore. Less hopeful than sad. As if you knew before the journey started how badly it would end, but were compelled regardless to begin it. Painful but lovely. It seems as melancholy and dark as I feel this morning, after a night of bad dreams, sweating, disquieted. I start my semester today and I'm hoping going to class will lift me from this sadness but it it running, as I say, rather deep.
Places I no longer want to live, people I no longer want to see. Hopes I thought I'd gotten over, resurfacing for another joust. Weakness in all places bringing down the brightest stars. Transmission of fault lines through proxemic osmosis. There is nothing real to stand on.
Afterwards she went to school and I to my mother's room next door: dark maroon, pale pink and mint. Black-edged paisley and the deepest red wood. She, a tornado of fury in complementing tones. Throwing her clothes into the dresser, practically kicking the laundry to the wall. Not yelling but practically so, not even wanting me there. Me seeing as I did, as a teenager, her anger as a porous wall, filled with the holes of her doubt but standing regardless. An imposing structure even for its fault lines.
I am as a mirror now, propped up, still reflective, cracked and sharded from the stress of being bent.
When I was small I used to demand she sing this song:
There is a ship
and she sails the seas
She's loaded deep
as deep can be
But not as deep as the love I'm in
The river is wide
I cannot get o'er
Neither have I
the wings to fly
Give me a boat
That can carry two
And both shall row
My love and I
It's a quiet song sung in a minor key, by a low voice I can hardly remember outside sleep anymore. Less hopeful than sad. As if you knew before the journey started how badly it would end, but were compelled regardless to begin it. Painful but lovely. It seems as melancholy and dark as I feel this morning, after a night of bad dreams, sweating, disquieted. I start my semester today and I'm hoping going to class will lift me from this sadness but it it running, as I say, rather deep.
Places I no longer want to live, people I no longer want to see. Hopes I thought I'd gotten over, resurfacing for another joust. Weakness in all places bringing down the brightest stars. Transmission of fault lines through proxemic osmosis. There is nothing real to stand on.