Listening to music tonight as the year fades out on the blog. I'm at a loss on what to write about and therefore have written nothing at all.
Not that I don't want to write.
But why be so stringently reliable? If I'm that committed then I should be committed.
My life sits on a set of scissors. Do I cut the pages, the lifeline, or the flower stems?
Radically, I sit and meditate on the screen's blank stare.
And I know that I won't always be read.
Also know this.
In high school he had dark hair and dark eyes and I was never pretty enough for him...just the lady in waiting, singing or hoping.
In California he also had dark hair and dark eyes and looked like him but with straightened teeth.
I have waited nearly twenty years and I thought I had won him, but winning him won me nothing. And I only won him briefly. And loving him was a disappointment.
I sit here older in body and feeling so heavy and obese, largess with age, believing youth is over. And then I remember getting off the BART this morning, ascending on the escalator to Market and 1st Streets, and looking up and thinking of how the skyscrapers were like friends. I have few. There, however, I was surrounded, protected, and a girl again--look how TALL, Dad--and my youth was drenching me like a shower with a lover, in all the creases of the body and brain folds.
"You could taste heaven perfectly..." - Tori Amos
I'm sure that most find me a completely useless capacity of space. But why?
God doesn't create waste without turning it into food for a life process somewhere. Here I stand. I weep wetly into a robe. I wish for lightness.
"A sorta fairytale with you."
Go on, dear reader. Go on to leave weight behind.
I'm not in love with anyone.