Fract
How do I stay the images in my mind, heavy at once, stoked by your words of new as of my memories. I seal my lips at the cost of losing your trust, your friendship. Wrought by guilt I am, but unable to find a pick worthy of extricating me from this mess.
***
The perfect match is always the one you can't have. The one you shouldn't have. The one that's doomed to fail.
It's like walking a tightrope, or twirling a pencil on its nib. That euphoric state of balance when all is right and as should be - when you feel on top of the world - is fatalistically short-lived.
It's the perfect pirouette and you feel breath-defyingly weightless. Then you fall. Only the very rare manage double digits. You normally have to be Russian. Most of us contend with two or three.
Some would say that idea of perfection is contrived; why should whirling like a crazed tornado somehow provide pin-sharp insight.
Why all the fuss just to knot your stomach in glee for fleeting moments.
Why should it feel so damned, unquestionably, meditatively, unremorsefully good.
Why should it feel more right than standing feet firmly planted on the ground.
Why do you find the jigsaw fit of limbs, the laughable jokes, the silences to smile smile through, just before they leave you.
***
Where I come from "... the sun [is] wilder, and the green darker and more aggressive. And yet, the docility of this country and of its countrymen [is] deceptive: behind the facade of good manners and low voices there lurks a viciousness".
***
The perfect match is always the one you can't have. The one you shouldn't have. The one that's doomed to fail.
It's like walking a tightrope, or twirling a pencil on its nib. That euphoric state of balance when all is right and as should be - when you feel on top of the world - is fatalistically short-lived.
It's the perfect pirouette and you feel breath-defyingly weightless. Then you fall. Only the very rare manage double digits. You normally have to be Russian. Most of us contend with two or three.
Some would say that idea of perfection is contrived; why should whirling like a crazed tornado somehow provide pin-sharp insight.
Why all the fuss just to knot your stomach in glee for fleeting moments.
Why should it feel so damned, unquestionably, meditatively, unremorsefully good.
Why should it feel more right than standing feet firmly planted on the ground.
Why do you find the jigsaw fit of limbs, the laughable jokes, the silences to smile smile through, just before they leave you.
***
Where I come from "... the sun [is] wilder, and the green darker and more aggressive. And yet, the docility of this country and of its countrymen [is] deceptive: behind the facade of good manners and low voices there lurks a viciousness".