the ride
Sometimes I wonder how anyone can take it: the up and the down, the throbbing uncertainty of the night and the endless string of tomorrows coursing down their smooth backs like strings of dark pearls; unseen, but determinedly there.
I wonder how we all manage, in these odd little compartments we've made for ourselves. I wonder how we all manage to wake up and brush teeth, smile at the customers and keep our cars on the roads when really, frowns and tumbles from overpasses seem so comparatively easy.
The constant vacillations between pleasure and pain, between genuine joy and deep, bootless sorrow ---all seemingly connected by nothing more than a membrane-thin barrier, by a few photons clinging to the edge of something just so much that you can make out its shape in the dark.
I always know when I'm nursing my less sane side, because I talk in violet nonsense, make dustmotes of maybe rise out of the peaks and troughs of the road songs, make sweet little nursery rhymes out of the syncopated gunshots that echo off the hills outside.
Imagine the leaves on the trees turning to cicadas and singing a symphony of sighs to lull me to sleep.
I don't even try to talk myself down, because the pleasure in cacophony, in senselessness, in chaos, is far too sweet a high to deny.
I wonder how we all manage, in these odd little compartments we've made for ourselves. I wonder how we all manage to wake up and brush teeth, smile at the customers and keep our cars on the roads when really, frowns and tumbles from overpasses seem so comparatively easy.
The constant vacillations between pleasure and pain, between genuine joy and deep, bootless sorrow ---all seemingly connected by nothing more than a membrane-thin barrier, by a few photons clinging to the edge of something just so much that you can make out its shape in the dark.
I always know when I'm nursing my less sane side, because I talk in violet nonsense, make dustmotes of maybe rise out of the peaks and troughs of the road songs, make sweet little nursery rhymes out of the syncopated gunshots that echo off the hills outside.
Imagine the leaves on the trees turning to cicadas and singing a symphony of sighs to lull me to sleep.
I don't even try to talk myself down, because the pleasure in cacophony, in senselessness, in chaos, is far too sweet a high to deny.