sonner, reveiller, se lever
Funny things, these thoughts I'm having.
I'm not a writer; I simply have stories to tell, stories not content to settle idly in the bones of my hands and discharge deposits like calcium to sit inside my veins, and clog them slowly so I choke later on, and pass silently from word attack to word attack, penstroke to penstroke (manual arrest.)
I'm not a photographer; I just have visions I can't keep to myself, images I must freeze forever in time that I may hoard them, selfishly, keeping them close to my skin like Smeagol and his ring in the caves (by far less manic, but nevertheless)- that I may own the beauty I find in the world, my sunset, my smile, my river, my genderless androgyn race. My Ganymedae.
I have no true professional calling, so to speak, only a nature that despite my lack of any audible artistic voice refuses to be silenced, cannot be muffled.
I might spend my life roaming, trailing a trunk full of only notebooks, sleeping upstairs on a mattress in the loft, maybe on the roof, scribbling late into the night, early into the morning.
I might buy a set of watercolors, and pretend that I can paint in my notebooks.
Might buy another sketchbook to fill with more drawings of rooms with words carved in their walls.
someday I want people to find my words.
on napkins, read between Olympic coffee rings and dew; scratched into bricks on the side of a building; spray painted on an alley wall.
scribbled in notebooks strewn on half the surfaces in the loft.
Under my bed.
In shoeboxes.
on someone's palms.
I find that more and more now I'm full of dreams, secret dreams. I keep them folded into tiny squares, tucked away in every available pocket of my clothes and skin where no one can see that I have ambition, where no one could guess I have my eyes open at all and that I'm not actually wandering aimless and apathetic through my life the way I seem to be. The truth is I have dreams so much bigger than myself that holding them cuts my palms, and slices whole sections of breath from my lungs. I can't contemplate their transcending the status of dreams, and I can't handle anyone peeking in at these dreams, knowing that I have hopes, that I want things, that I want to be more than what I am to anyone at this moment.
Sometimes it seems better to keep my eyes at half-mast behind the screen of someone else's marijuana smoke, pretend I'm the uptight bitch I make myself out to be, rather than tender dreams and shaking fingers clamped around a midnight pen, rather than oceans of words and sight. Better to be seen, better that they don't know I see them- that I know who they are, much better than anyone knows who I am.
I guess it's true, then, that I am an enigma. But not in any James Bond fashion. I am an enigma in the sense that Me is buried beneath I so that You can't see Myself.
You could find me, you know. Someone could, if someone knew to look for the places where my cloak folds, the spaces where the plates of my armor join together.
If you ease your fingernail between the plates, if you wrap your fingers around the folds and pull, lift very gently, the whole thing will come away.
I would be naked.
I would be visible.
I would be seen, I would be known.
But someday maybe I'll disappear, and someone will dig up my notebooks, unearth the photographs I was so proud of, and hold them up to the light (careful they might crumble), and think,
"He exists."
I'm not a writer; I simply have stories to tell, stories not content to settle idly in the bones of my hands and discharge deposits like calcium to sit inside my veins, and clog them slowly so I choke later on, and pass silently from word attack to word attack, penstroke to penstroke (manual arrest.)
I'm not a photographer; I just have visions I can't keep to myself, images I must freeze forever in time that I may hoard them, selfishly, keeping them close to my skin like Smeagol and his ring in the caves (by far less manic, but nevertheless)- that I may own the beauty I find in the world, my sunset, my smile, my river, my genderless androgyn race. My Ganymedae.
I have no true professional calling, so to speak, only a nature that despite my lack of any audible artistic voice refuses to be silenced, cannot be muffled.
I might spend my life roaming, trailing a trunk full of only notebooks, sleeping upstairs on a mattress in the loft, maybe on the roof, scribbling late into the night, early into the morning.
I might buy a set of watercolors, and pretend that I can paint in my notebooks.
Might buy another sketchbook to fill with more drawings of rooms with words carved in their walls.
someday I want people to find my words.
on napkins, read between Olympic coffee rings and dew; scratched into bricks on the side of a building; spray painted on an alley wall.
scribbled in notebooks strewn on half the surfaces in the loft.
Under my bed.
In shoeboxes.
on someone's palms.
I find that more and more now I'm full of dreams, secret dreams. I keep them folded into tiny squares, tucked away in every available pocket of my clothes and skin where no one can see that I have ambition, where no one could guess I have my eyes open at all and that I'm not actually wandering aimless and apathetic through my life the way I seem to be. The truth is I have dreams so much bigger than myself that holding them cuts my palms, and slices whole sections of breath from my lungs. I can't contemplate their transcending the status of dreams, and I can't handle anyone peeking in at these dreams, knowing that I have hopes, that I want things, that I want to be more than what I am to anyone at this moment.
Sometimes it seems better to keep my eyes at half-mast behind the screen of someone else's marijuana smoke, pretend I'm the uptight bitch I make myself out to be, rather than tender dreams and shaking fingers clamped around a midnight pen, rather than oceans of words and sight. Better to be seen, better that they don't know I see them- that I know who they are, much better than anyone knows who I am.
I guess it's true, then, that I am an enigma. But not in any James Bond fashion. I am an enigma in the sense that Me is buried beneath I so that You can't see Myself.
You could find me, you know. Someone could, if someone knew to look for the places where my cloak folds, the spaces where the plates of my armor join together.
If you ease your fingernail between the plates, if you wrap your fingers around the folds and pull, lift very gently, the whole thing will come away.
I would be naked.
I would be visible.
I would be seen, I would be known.
But someday maybe I'll disappear, and someone will dig up my notebooks, unearth the photographs I was so proud of, and hold them up to the light (careful they might crumble), and think,
"He exists."