milk comes from udders
I'm back in the recess of the spoon right at the root, right where the actual spoon part starts; that little curve that signals the start of something new, that gentle slanting. I know it's all blathering to you, but to me, in this moment, it means something profound. That's the strange thing about realizing anything profound. It's always in the gaps, on the offbeat, in the recesses where nobody cares to look. And it's always just you. Alone.
Hello, realization.
What a lonely friend you make.
I used to spend a lot of time staring at the stares. I was pretty serious about it. Sometimes I would wonder if i was trying to make myself more interesting, if i was trying to have something to tell people. "I look at the stars!" But then i realized that I don't tell anyone, so that can't be it. And also nobody is astute enough to notice, and if they are then they don't translate it properly, because how could they? Anyway, i used to spend a lot of time looking at the stars, but somewhere along the line i got distracted and now im a little bit afraid to look at them. Like a foreign language you haven't studied in years. What if it doesn't translate? The only pain greater than the pain of childhood is the pain of missing childhood.
I remember one day in particular, when i was someting like 9 or 10 years old and i was outside, playing in some hovel or other that I'd made myself in the woods. I was trying to decide what i was going to do with my life. Somehow, I thought i'd reached a pivotal decision point. I was choosing between money and passion (of course). I chose both (of course). And i built a fake fireplace in my wooded fort and wondered why it felt like the trees were looking at me.
But I was right, even then. I'll always choose both so i'll probably get neither. And what if not even Angel Food Cake is what you thought it was? What about Macaroni and Cheese? What happens then? What then?
Sometimes I read over old stuff I've written and i lament because i can't remember what little space in my brain those ideas and words came from, and i fear i may have erased it away in my attempts to better fit this so called life of mine. Sometimes I wonder if ive fried them all away, those brain cells with the pure thoughts. Have i drowned them in beer? Have i saturated them with whiskey? Have a singed them with weed and cigarettes and computer screens? Soemtimes I wonder if I'll end up being anything more than warm skin. And usually i'm cold anyway.
but what i meant was, will it matter ever? Will there ever come a time that it will change something, that it will AMOUNT to something that i could probably write something profound but im too busy trying to kill off my brain because it's interfering with my normalcy and i can't sleep when im lonely and i can never sleep?
but airplanes and cars and trains can only take you so far.
same with words.
same with thoughts.
sometimes i think touch is the only thing i really believe in.
but you need a body for that.
Hello, realization.
What a lonely friend you make.
I used to spend a lot of time staring at the stares. I was pretty serious about it. Sometimes I would wonder if i was trying to make myself more interesting, if i was trying to have something to tell people. "I look at the stars!" But then i realized that I don't tell anyone, so that can't be it. And also nobody is astute enough to notice, and if they are then they don't translate it properly, because how could they? Anyway, i used to spend a lot of time looking at the stars, but somewhere along the line i got distracted and now im a little bit afraid to look at them. Like a foreign language you haven't studied in years. What if it doesn't translate? The only pain greater than the pain of childhood is the pain of missing childhood.
I remember one day in particular, when i was someting like 9 or 10 years old and i was outside, playing in some hovel or other that I'd made myself in the woods. I was trying to decide what i was going to do with my life. Somehow, I thought i'd reached a pivotal decision point. I was choosing between money and passion (of course). I chose both (of course). And i built a fake fireplace in my wooded fort and wondered why it felt like the trees were looking at me.
But I was right, even then. I'll always choose both so i'll probably get neither. And what if not even Angel Food Cake is what you thought it was? What about Macaroni and Cheese? What happens then? What then?
Sometimes I read over old stuff I've written and i lament because i can't remember what little space in my brain those ideas and words came from, and i fear i may have erased it away in my attempts to better fit this so called life of mine. Sometimes I wonder if ive fried them all away, those brain cells with the pure thoughts. Have i drowned them in beer? Have i saturated them with whiskey? Have a singed them with weed and cigarettes and computer screens? Soemtimes I wonder if I'll end up being anything more than warm skin. And usually i'm cold anyway.
but what i meant was, will it matter ever? Will there ever come a time that it will change something, that it will AMOUNT to something that i could probably write something profound but im too busy trying to kill off my brain because it's interfering with my normalcy and i can't sleep when im lonely and i can never sleep?
but airplanes and cars and trains can only take you so far.
same with words.
same with thoughts.
sometimes i think touch is the only thing i really believe in.
but you need a body for that.