Captain's log:But it’s a process, and people have always known that, there are twelve steps or there are prayers you can say, diets and exercise routines. It’s odd because everyone I know wants to disintegrate a little bit, occupy a little less space, weigh less, intrude less. There are times you feel like you could sail through hunger and need and compulsion, but to get to this place of apathy you’ve already succumbed enough times.
I wonder about you, and how you see this, and what colour your life is. I feel like someone who left the party after an argument yet still wants to know what the music sounds like, how much is in your glass, the heat and ambience. For years my life has felt like your vicarious window, I have let you in for hours at a time to watch. Even the peeling of a mandarin, placing the skin on the couch arm, I felt that I was a poetic creature. I love to be beautiful. I can survive on terrible things.
These are truths about myself that I surrender regretfully. I hate to undo preconceptions, it always feels like a shattering of innocence, even if I am merely correcting someone’s pronunciation or a misspelling of a name.
At the same time I feel a compulsion to explain myself, as if there is some way forward after having repaired things. There isn’t, but the compulsion remains the same.
Tired
--
Yo.
and I love to be wickedly
strange for them -
how they smile at me when I
play a fool'
Sorry I had to let you know how spastically poetic that was. It reminds me of my school friend Thomas who used to climb trees on excursions. And the blonde guy (whose name I forget) who rescued trapped birds with his bare hands.
stumbled across this just now, reminded of you
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