-- the sound of wings .12
As almost sociologist, I often play the accredited voyeur, watching and simultaneously passing judgment without falling under the same scrutiny myself. I enjoy that distance, and I don’t particularly care for this…journal network, this explosion of communication that extends beyond our apartment walls. But as I’m a part of this particular interpersonal system just as much as another, I find it more and more hypocritical that I do not participate in it. At the very least, I can console myself with the knowledge that I’ll never post in some ridiculous drunken state. Very tacky, you know.
I think I prefer calligraphy, written word, the shape and weight of a letter as it sits on a line, or the gliding stroke of a brush and the heavy ink. This cluttered type is pretty utilitarian, without personality. Actual handwriting says a lot about a person…but I suppose I’m digressing.
There is only so long one can sit and contemplate the space between words, the lull between voices. How two people can live in turned glances and feigned interest-is it still anger? Fear? A lack of trying, maybe. It always piques my interest when others try so hard to insert and impose, force themselves (mentally, not even physically) onto others, yet it may be worse to continually remove oneself entirely. Closeness is a strange craving.
If you step outside and turn North after dusk, you can watch the vague outlines of fluttering V’s begin to slowly assemble themselves southward. They bow to the inevitability.
I think I prefer calligraphy, written word, the shape and weight of a letter as it sits on a line, or the gliding stroke of a brush and the heavy ink. This cluttered type is pretty utilitarian, without personality. Actual handwriting says a lot about a person…but I suppose I’m digressing.
There is only so long one can sit and contemplate the space between words, the lull between voices. How two people can live in turned glances and feigned interest-is it still anger? Fear? A lack of trying, maybe. It always piques my interest when others try so hard to insert and impose, force themselves (mentally, not even physically) onto others, yet it may be worse to continually remove oneself entirely. Closeness is a strange craving.
If you step outside and turn North after dusk, you can watch the vague outlines of fluttering V’s begin to slowly assemble themselves southward. They bow to the inevitability.