(no subject)
Whereareyou whereareyou whereareyou? You seem to have escaped your physical form somewhere, or you've swept downcurrent in a time dimension.
I remember when you started to dissipate- I was upset, of course! I don't think I have ever been more upset about anything. But it was like- oh, I don't know, -- sprouting or something. I was coming aboveground and fanning out my fronds, squinting forward into new light. I felt like I was leaving a place where I was mistreated, or that's what I was trying to convince myself.
When I was a little kid I believed that permanent marker was permanent, really permanent. So if I wrote your name on a stone and buried it by the stream, it would be there in a thousand years. The stone itself is probably weathered down to dust by now.
Have I made a terrible mistake? I don't think so. The big things I am unconcerned about. As much as I'm for foresight I cannot be anything but myopic.
Where are we on the other timeline? What are we up to, what's important to us? And who are we, different from things we've become now? I see so little. It's funny to confess, but what I usually see is white curtains, latticed windows, paneled doors. I rarely go beyond the architecture of the house. I never see you. I never speak to you and I never hear your voice.
THE PAST ALWAYS SEEMS _ HOWEVER WRONGLY _ TO BE PREDESTINED
Part of me is convinced that I will age out of it!! That the gloom and fear that comes with the progression will become some kind of saving grace! And no longer bound by whatever-this-is: this beauty obsession stuff, this physical form stuff, this not-thin-enough stuff.... once I break those chains by aging out of the competition, I'll be free.
Looking around I don't see it getting better.
But I think that saving grace will be menopause. And I won't remember to care about anything but money, charity, legacy. I'll become entirely consumed in the mundane, in adding accounts, in wiping things down, cleaning stoves and taking out trash, and I'll be happy there. Maybe I'll age into something we're both proud of. Maybe not.
I am no longer afraid of that end like I used to be. It will be a sort of metaphysical anesthesia. I guess you could say it's already begun.
But!! But! Sometimes I see the moon and come looking for you.
I remember when you started to dissipate- I was upset, of course! I don't think I have ever been more upset about anything. But it was like- oh, I don't know, -- sprouting or something. I was coming aboveground and fanning out my fronds, squinting forward into new light. I felt like I was leaving a place where I was mistreated, or that's what I was trying to convince myself.
When I was a little kid I believed that permanent marker was permanent, really permanent. So if I wrote your name on a stone and buried it by the stream, it would be there in a thousand years. The stone itself is probably weathered down to dust by now.
Have I made a terrible mistake? I don't think so. The big things I am unconcerned about. As much as I'm for foresight I cannot be anything but myopic.
Where are we on the other timeline? What are we up to, what's important to us? And who are we, different from things we've become now? I see so little. It's funny to confess, but what I usually see is white curtains, latticed windows, paneled doors. I rarely go beyond the architecture of the house. I never see you. I never speak to you and I never hear your voice.
THE PAST ALWAYS SEEMS _ HOWEVER WRONGLY _ TO BE PREDESTINED
Part of me is convinced that I will age out of it!! That the gloom and fear that comes with the progression will become some kind of saving grace! And no longer bound by whatever-this-is: this beauty obsession stuff, this physical form stuff, this not-thin-enough stuff.... once I break those chains by aging out of the competition, I'll be free.
Looking around I don't see it getting better.
But I think that saving grace will be menopause. And I won't remember to care about anything but money, charity, legacy. I'll become entirely consumed in the mundane, in adding accounts, in wiping things down, cleaning stoves and taking out trash, and I'll be happy there. Maybe I'll age into something we're both proud of. Maybe not.
I am no longer afraid of that end like I used to be. It will be a sort of metaphysical anesthesia. I guess you could say it's already begun.
But!! But! Sometimes I see the moon and come looking for you.