"your home is here... within my heart..."
tonight we had a ferocious rainstorm. the sheets swept through and soaked the green fields and wintry earth drenching every frost-rimmed plant and every dew-covered spot of dirt. the winds howled through naked palmetto leaves and stung naked eyes.
upon arriving home, I promptly took a thorough shower, threw on some clothes for modesty's sake, and ran outside. spreading my arms askew, as if in haphazard flight, I threw myself to the violence of the storm clouds, tethered to the ground as a wingless wraith, soaking my body and lungs and pores beyond saturation.
I'm flirting with madness, tempting common sense... in hopes that I might finally die.
patterns make sense to me. shapes, shadows, SYMMETRY. they make sense. perfect, peaceful sense. to. me. I always illumine the patterns around me laying dormant in the ambience of my surroundings. in traffic, in sleep, in conversation. you speak to me and lull out words and I drown out the sounds of the pleasant voice wooing me as I behold eyes, measuring the aperture of your sockets, the diameter of the pupil to the cornea. noticing the ratio of nose tip to mouth.
I count five fingers on your hand and I know you're real. I know you're all there. If I look too long at a person, they begin to fade, like an apparition, swallowed by soft white light into the mist. fading like the black, cool, receding tides into murkier, vapid depth. I pick out points - fingertips, elbows, the tip of the nose, the edge of the brow, the sexual nexus, the balls of your feet, the nook in your knees - points darkened into obtuse form beyond the diminished husk of your shell. and I connect these points. line x to line y. ab bisectors and perpendicular mental illustrations to indicate that you're still quite fully there.
I can count the number of lightning rods in a marble tile in a matter of seconds. I can pull abe lincoln's shape out of a whitewashed plastered wall. I can draw obtuse triangles to corrolate the receding horizon with the parallel row of suburban foliage.
I'm weird. I tried making a cup of tea with soymilk and honey. I put the ruby red mug to my mouth and expected the cappucino-coloured liquid to stain my lips. but instead I found a sea of bejeweled waters, sparkling with the diamonds of heaven. It was my cascading flood of tears, pristine in its deception. I'm weird. I want to cry. don't know how.
I can't draw. but it honestly just makes me feel good. like a toddler busied with crayons. I suck but it relaxes me. this is the first thing I've drawn in over 4 whole years and its effect is therapeudic. and I like it. and I'm gonna' keep doing it.
copyright © 2003 versailles
upon arriving home, I promptly took a thorough shower, threw on some clothes for modesty's sake, and ran outside. spreading my arms askew, as if in haphazard flight, I threw myself to the violence of the storm clouds, tethered to the ground as a wingless wraith, soaking my body and lungs and pores beyond saturation.
I'm flirting with madness, tempting common sense... in hopes that I might finally die.
patterns make sense to me. shapes, shadows, SYMMETRY. they make sense. perfect, peaceful sense. to. me. I always illumine the patterns around me laying dormant in the ambience of my surroundings. in traffic, in sleep, in conversation. you speak to me and lull out words and I drown out the sounds of the pleasant voice wooing me as I behold eyes, measuring the aperture of your sockets, the diameter of the pupil to the cornea. noticing the ratio of nose tip to mouth.
I count five fingers on your hand and I know you're real. I know you're all there. If I look too long at a person, they begin to fade, like an apparition, swallowed by soft white light into the mist. fading like the black, cool, receding tides into murkier, vapid depth. I pick out points - fingertips, elbows, the tip of the nose, the edge of the brow, the sexual nexus, the balls of your feet, the nook in your knees - points darkened into obtuse form beyond the diminished husk of your shell. and I connect these points. line x to line y. ab bisectors and perpendicular mental illustrations to indicate that you're still quite fully there.
I can count the number of lightning rods in a marble tile in a matter of seconds. I can pull abe lincoln's shape out of a whitewashed plastered wall. I can draw obtuse triangles to corrolate the receding horizon with the parallel row of suburban foliage.
I'm weird. I tried making a cup of tea with soymilk and honey. I put the ruby red mug to my mouth and expected the cappucino-coloured liquid to stain my lips. but instead I found a sea of bejeweled waters, sparkling with the diamonds of heaven. It was my cascading flood of tears, pristine in its deception. I'm weird. I want to cry. don't know how.
I can't draw. but it honestly just makes me feel good. like a toddler busied with crayons. I suck but it relaxes me. this is the first thing I've drawn in over 4 whole years and its effect is therapeudic. and I like it. and I'm gonna' keep doing it.
copyright © 2003 versailles