Things of the past
i read today he's having a child.
i'm not going to pretend this doesn't feel strange, the end of things looming so closely. the end of something you haven't looked at in a while, but have, nonetheless, missed on some level inexplicable to your peers. i miss the friendship, more than anything; but it seems a mountain of change has grown beneath him. i don't suppose we really know each other at all anymore.
while the certainty that i would have to contact him to finalise things already weighed over me, the idea that he might have to do the same never crossed my mind. in the end, he stopped replying to my emails, and the thought of receiving one from him seems alien and somewhat unnerving. so now each day i will wonder, amidst all the spam and mailing list and impersonal email i receive on a heavily daily basis, what else will be there?
i let his birthday and the holidays pass without mention. i couldn't, this year, memories of those towns and those faces have been raised more articulately than ever as of late. he still has some of my things.
i am unsettled. unraveling, like the seams of today. there is a heaviness in the pit of my stomach that does not affect the way my pants fit, but feels as if it should. there are no regrets in romance, but love is a funny thing. it is hide and seek's uncontested champion, because even the strongest of us can never find it all to pick clean from our teeth and dig from beneath or nails. not once it is truly felt, in any way shape or form for some one or some thing.
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Trembled [08 May 2007|02:45pm]
[ music | Sia ]
an ink drop in myriad tapestries of blue and grey: silent, unmoving, empty of courtiers and their accompaniments. a pair of them, staring at the only thing at which there was to stare that wasn't trapped in static, the only thing that wasn't reminiscent of an out of date photo where the colours had begun to bleed into one another, instilling a false sense of near-life. but the window danced, awash with a slithering black light. berated by such a downpour of the ink reflected in those eyes the surface of the glass seemed to breathe with each smooth shudder of the sheeting liquid, until it didn't seem there was glass at all; it was only some dark sea listing just beyond the pale wooden frame.
what lay beyond that inconsistent threshold was something of constant consideration, the consequences of which were limitless layers of dust over the room's internal landscape. the rooms and hallways there seemed to wind endlessly within each other, lately proffering no more answers, and so became insignificant, rarely able to echo the passing of footfalls or murmur the touch of fingertips tracing paint. the worn spots along the walls were long abandoned.
now, instead, the entire world had manifested itself just outside it, teasingly playing like a waterfall of silk against the window. long fingers stretched out toward it; tips touched something cool and solid, and unmoving. the glass. skin paled slightly as pressure was applied for several long moments, and when contact was finally broken, the blood rushed back into is place silently. fingers curled and tightened against palm, nails gave birth to crescent moons in flesh, tendons carved mountains and valleys. without a second thought the terrain of knotted knuckles smashed through the glass, splintering it into stars that reflected the soft light of the room at a hundred angles.
the outside poured through, dousing hand and arm and running down to drip into a pool on the floor. the ocean that had danced along the other side of the glass was clear, the only colour lent it came in thin red ribbons, diffused from bright to dull, from crimson to pink to nothingness all in the measure of a few short moments. it was in this moment of unexpected translucence that the black mouth of the window came back into focus. fingers unfolded and another hand came up alongside the first, palms reaching out to rest on the sharp edge of the sill as body weight was shifted to lean forward, stretching as far as possible without concern for the deluge. above the sigh of the water, she screamed onto the stage.
i'm not going to pretend this doesn't feel strange, the end of things looming so closely. the end of something you haven't looked at in a while, but have, nonetheless, missed on some level inexplicable to your peers. i miss the friendship, more than anything; but it seems a mountain of change has grown beneath him. i don't suppose we really know each other at all anymore.
while the certainty that i would have to contact him to finalise things already weighed over me, the idea that he might have to do the same never crossed my mind. in the end, he stopped replying to my emails, and the thought of receiving one from him seems alien and somewhat unnerving. so now each day i will wonder, amidst all the spam and mailing list and impersonal email i receive on a heavily daily basis, what else will be there?
i let his birthday and the holidays pass without mention. i couldn't, this year, memories of those towns and those faces have been raised more articulately than ever as of late. he still has some of my things.
i am unsettled. unraveling, like the seams of today. there is a heaviness in the pit of my stomach that does not affect the way my pants fit, but feels as if it should. there are no regrets in romance, but love is a funny thing. it is hide and seek's uncontested champion, because even the strongest of us can never find it all to pick clean from our teeth and dig from beneath or nails. not once it is truly felt, in any way shape or form for some one or some thing.
post comment
Trembled [08 May 2007|02:45pm]
[ music | Sia ]
an ink drop in myriad tapestries of blue and grey: silent, unmoving, empty of courtiers and their accompaniments. a pair of them, staring at the only thing at which there was to stare that wasn't trapped in static, the only thing that wasn't reminiscent of an out of date photo where the colours had begun to bleed into one another, instilling a false sense of near-life. but the window danced, awash with a slithering black light. berated by such a downpour of the ink reflected in those eyes the surface of the glass seemed to breathe with each smooth shudder of the sheeting liquid, until it didn't seem there was glass at all; it was only some dark sea listing just beyond the pale wooden frame.
what lay beyond that inconsistent threshold was something of constant consideration, the consequences of which were limitless layers of dust over the room's internal landscape. the rooms and hallways there seemed to wind endlessly within each other, lately proffering no more answers, and so became insignificant, rarely able to echo the passing of footfalls or murmur the touch of fingertips tracing paint. the worn spots along the walls were long abandoned.
now, instead, the entire world had manifested itself just outside it, teasingly playing like a waterfall of silk against the window. long fingers stretched out toward it; tips touched something cool and solid, and unmoving. the glass. skin paled slightly as pressure was applied for several long moments, and when contact was finally broken, the blood rushed back into is place silently. fingers curled and tightened against palm, nails gave birth to crescent moons in flesh, tendons carved mountains and valleys. without a second thought the terrain of knotted knuckles smashed through the glass, splintering it into stars that reflected the soft light of the room at a hundred angles.
the outside poured through, dousing hand and arm and running down to drip into a pool on the floor. the ocean that had danced along the other side of the glass was clear, the only colour lent it came in thin red ribbons, diffused from bright to dull, from crimson to pink to nothingness all in the measure of a few short moments. it was in this moment of unexpected translucence that the black mouth of the window came back into focus. fingers unfolded and another hand came up alongside the first, palms reaching out to rest on the sharp edge of the sill as body weight was shifted to lean forward, stretching as far as possible without concern for the deluge. above the sigh of the water, she screamed onto the stage.