Contradicting views, or the Impossibility of Resisting Resistance
&you're a familiar landscape but I have to commit your beauty to writing.
Each small toe. Each crevice I dared to approximate. Each mistake, always lovelier than its predecessor. The way you look without seeing, but most especially the way you are able to exhume all the information you need at first glance. The Archaeology of Inventive and Invented Realities, your area of expertise.
&you're a familiar landscape for I pass by you everyday.
Somewhere, someplace, somehow, someone managed to float it by us--Memory is [at least] 50% smell. The scourge of repetition isn't that we grow tired or bored or complacent or good; it is that we eventually grow fond. For what is fondness but an irreverence for the very structures that (do not) allow us to be together?
&you're a familiar landscape that I have to bypass everyday.
In order to slide back into the rhythm of being accustomed to your view, there are rules I must reiterate and expound on. Eventually, an expedition will unearth from the annals of my being--when they cut me open to count the rings on my body--the story of resistance and complicity. I will get used to the slow, searing, sinful silences and with enough time, I will even be able to fill the gaps with laughter and mean-spirited but moving anecdotes of how I see you.
This is a story best left to clothes worn; this is only the language of coat pockets.
Each small toe. Each crevice I dared to approximate. Each mistake, always lovelier than its predecessor. The way you look without seeing, but most especially the way you are able to exhume all the information you need at first glance. The Archaeology of Inventive and Invented Realities, your area of expertise.
&you're a familiar landscape for I pass by you everyday.
Somewhere, someplace, somehow, someone managed to float it by us--Memory is [at least] 50% smell. The scourge of repetition isn't that we grow tired or bored or complacent or good; it is that we eventually grow fond. For what is fondness but an irreverence for the very structures that (do not) allow us to be together?
&you're a familiar landscape that I have to bypass everyday.
In order to slide back into the rhythm of being accustomed to your view, there are rules I must reiterate and expound on. Eventually, an expedition will unearth from the annals of my being--when they cut me open to count the rings on my body--the story of resistance and complicity. I will get used to the slow, searing, sinful silences and with enough time, I will even be able to fill the gaps with laughter and mean-spirited but moving anecdotes of how I see you.
This is a story best left to clothes worn; this is only the language of coat pockets.