hold(ing)
A finely tempered nature longs to escape from the personal life into the world of objective perception and thought.
The distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.
The gorgeous patterns.
The way they assemble themselves
how a simple thing like margarine
over butter
can send me into a whirlwind of emotion, lamps without shades and glasses and red and blue things. Entire record labels, and certain animals, b side horror films, electronic devices, web pages, strains of pot, highways& routes, laundry, gin, the way a pillow may or may not feel below my head, at night, flavors of frozen treats.
every color and shape imaginable lends itself to the image in my head. So what is wrong with my want? My body can't soak up enough light these days. I am in unknown territory in every way imaginable, nothing to get back to. Nothing to want/ I sew hard, like the strands of thread will pull me somewhere, and they might, but chances are i'm just falling, crawling into it, away from it. Stitching stitches, small ones. and making pancakes, my own syrup, and playing tangoes, breathing, or not.
I couldn't tell you how things are if I tried.
They are what they are, until they are dust.
-----------------+-
MMCOSMOS, sitting by the water, soaking up the sun and knowing. Cloudy days make me want my table, my cd, my lamp(s), all the books i ever lent, a painting, a pillow baaaack. it's nbd.
The distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.
The gorgeous patterns.
The way they assemble themselves
how a simple thing like margarine
over butter
can send me into a whirlwind of emotion, lamps without shades and glasses and red and blue things. Entire record labels, and certain animals, b side horror films, electronic devices, web pages, strains of pot, highways& routes, laundry, gin, the way a pillow may or may not feel below my head, at night, flavors of frozen treats.
every color and shape imaginable lends itself to the image in my head. So what is wrong with my want? My body can't soak up enough light these days. I am in unknown territory in every way imaginable, nothing to get back to. Nothing to want/ I sew hard, like the strands of thread will pull me somewhere, and they might, but chances are i'm just falling, crawling into it, away from it. Stitching stitches, small ones. and making pancakes, my own syrup, and playing tangoes, breathing, or not.
I couldn't tell you how things are if I tried.
They are what they are, until they are dust.
-----------------+-
MMCOSMOS, sitting by the water, soaking up the sun and knowing. Cloudy days make me want my table, my cd, my lamp(s), all the books i ever lent, a painting, a pillow baaaack. it's nbd.