i suppose

the problem comes when you close the notebook and put the pen down. everything you say is beautiful, so just cry, and keep crying, scratch it out, into the walls, the conversations with yourself. when we were in high school we'd open whatever we used on our computers to play our mp3 daydream songs and we'd close our eyes and scroll with our finger on one button and we'd ask it a question like those magic eight balls that never had the right answer, when we felt ready we'd press enter and let the song tell us. somehow we're still here looking for the right answers.
this will not be in my story.
what will be in the story is that time, when we were driving at night and i had too much to drink, probably, usually this is the case & i was thinking of beauty or the lack of it , i might have been babbling or rather , i was staying very quiet, and we were smoking from that pipe , and the inhale was bewitching the exhale into believing in peace and copper colored thoughts and the smell of the sea and while we drove in silence, i found in the distance a deer. the deer  was standing in the center of the road,  being held there by darkness and the color that evergreen trees turn in the pitch black and it was looking right at me and i thought about permanence and needles and ink and words, always words and i thought of that doctor, and the lyme disease and the de-personalization and of antlers, hands & fingers, and the touch-and-go method of this creature and the night i wrote in that basement with the blankets over my head and sleeping baby cousins in the bed with me, their quiet snoring. as we drove really fast and closer and closer to the animal the universe changed it's mind and it was not a deer, at all, instead i found myself hazily face to face with a much older woman, wearing some kind of robe, too much like those light blue hospital robes for me to believe it was one, bent over  completely, without grace, exposing things that felt similar to a frenetic fire behind my eyelids, hot and bright. realizing that this person was doing this for a reason, there was purpose here,  my mind ran around to the places she has been and the things she has seen and what she wanted out of the world and what it meant to feel a rush and i began to cry. the tears were inexplicable and you questioned them, but me, i had nothing to say, just the things in my heart and  only the tears, and the half breaths, the hands over my face and the knowledge that, the knowledge that the world will turn around and take whats yours, take whats beautiful and it will turn it into the darkest things your brains can create, people will live in this world and they will want to do things to other people and to you and to love and to hope and we will let them,  we have no choice but to let them. i cried myself to sleep that night, curled up like a lowercase c, what did i dream? what didn't i dream. i will put this in my story.

1 comment:

rollerfink said...

everything you say is beautiful