blame it all because (we've tossed our failures at the earth)
the funny truth is that for all the things you think i hate you for,
sometimes i'm jealous of you.
because you vibrate on a higher plane than i do,
because you can see bigger pictures than my tiny mecrocosm (it's what the youniverse becomes without the yous),
because to you nothing is wrong but wrong itself.
in your head there may be insane things;
in your head there may be things that shouldn't be there.
but in your head, too,
are these huge tapestries of intricate workings, elaborately detailed thought processes and concepts and images in startling clarity, and dreams-
you don't need to dream of the future, or hope for peace or anything that so many of us guilty denizens cling to- you are your own little world, with all its faults and its glory.
and your galaxies, your skies, your moon and sun and stars, are music.
you constantly harp on about wishing you wrote like him. for some reason you snark about wishing you could write like me, but you can't see what you do at all, how you weave from the particles of smoky dust in a ray of sunlight little memories and stories,
how a fresh page is another canvas for your trembling fingers to transform, and i hunger,
i thirst for each new word you stain your books with, for each new idea that overtakes you and sends you into these furies and frenzies you hate so much despite what they bring to the rest of us.
you don't know how we glory in your words,
how we stroke them against our cheeks and murmur at their textures and tints; you might not be able to sing with your mouth, but how you serenade with your hands!
and the way that you feel things!
the way that you hear what no one will listen to!
there are things that make you almost inhuman. you can't be human- you know too much, you feel and see and think more than the rest of us. and how you ache for things, how you feel them in the very molecules of your being!
a person like you might happen to us every millenium. If even that often.
that is why i don't want you to die, you know. it would devastate us all. and people who don't know you will feel that the colors around them have gotten just a little dimmer.
the tastes a little duller.
the smells a little more vague.
they will mourn your passing in a thousand unmentionable ways. and i?
i, to whom you think you are so insignificant, and so expendable?
i would lose the reason that i had for listening harder. for feeling deeper. for learning to see with my eyes closed.
that is what you gave me. what you meant. what you mean.
right now we are divided, as a chasm post-volcano,
but even lava cools and forms its chains and its bonds. even forests burned to the ground grow anew, richer than before for all the scars beneath their floors and luscious canopies.
it is asking too much, i know, to ask you to listen for the other things when i am screaming: for when i am saying i hate you (i love you), you annoy me (i need you), you are frustrating (you thrill me), you're a coward (i wish i were as brave as you sometimes can be)....
And yes. He does mean a lot to me, a lot. I don't know what color his meaning is in my spectrum yet, only that it's strengthening in its intensity.
But don't you know?
don't you see that you're the longest wavelength?
i feel you underneath my skin. you are my best friend, underneath all this.
it is a herculean favor, but please, remember that.
sometimes i'm jealous of you.
because you vibrate on a higher plane than i do,
because you can see bigger pictures than my tiny mecrocosm (it's what the youniverse becomes without the yous),
because to you nothing is wrong but wrong itself.
in your head there may be insane things;
in your head there may be things that shouldn't be there.
but in your head, too,
are these huge tapestries of intricate workings, elaborately detailed thought processes and concepts and images in startling clarity, and dreams-
you don't need to dream of the future, or hope for peace or anything that so many of us guilty denizens cling to- you are your own little world, with all its faults and its glory.
and your galaxies, your skies, your moon and sun and stars, are music.
you constantly harp on about wishing you wrote like him. for some reason you snark about wishing you could write like me, but you can't see what you do at all, how you weave from the particles of smoky dust in a ray of sunlight little memories and stories,
how a fresh page is another canvas for your trembling fingers to transform, and i hunger,
i thirst for each new word you stain your books with, for each new idea that overtakes you and sends you into these furies and frenzies you hate so much despite what they bring to the rest of us.
you don't know how we glory in your words,
how we stroke them against our cheeks and murmur at their textures and tints; you might not be able to sing with your mouth, but how you serenade with your hands!
and the way that you feel things!
the way that you hear what no one will listen to!
there are things that make you almost inhuman. you can't be human- you know too much, you feel and see and think more than the rest of us. and how you ache for things, how you feel them in the very molecules of your being!
a person like you might happen to us every millenium. If even that often.
that is why i don't want you to die, you know. it would devastate us all. and people who don't know you will feel that the colors around them have gotten just a little dimmer.
the tastes a little duller.
the smells a little more vague.
they will mourn your passing in a thousand unmentionable ways. and i?
i, to whom you think you are so insignificant, and so expendable?
i would lose the reason that i had for listening harder. for feeling deeper. for learning to see with my eyes closed.
that is what you gave me. what you meant. what you mean.
right now we are divided, as a chasm post-volcano,
but even lava cools and forms its chains and its bonds. even forests burned to the ground grow anew, richer than before for all the scars beneath their floors and luscious canopies.
it is asking too much, i know, to ask you to listen for the other things when i am screaming: for when i am saying i hate you (i love you), you annoy me (i need you), you are frustrating (you thrill me), you're a coward (i wish i were as brave as you sometimes can be)....
And yes. He does mean a lot to me, a lot. I don't know what color his meaning is in my spectrum yet, only that it's strengthening in its intensity.
But don't you know?
don't you see that you're the longest wavelength?
i feel you underneath my skin. you are my best friend, underneath all this.
it is a herculean favor, but please, remember that.