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playwright /
Feeling yourself disintegrate / - Subscribe
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Moving too fast, way too fast. Sometimes, I catch the scent of some memory lingering in my subconscious, long forgotten, long neglected. It's as if some season or day or certain kind of weather or certain epiphany or other is just wandering about in me, and for a moment, my new eyes look into my old eyes, and I can see something amazing, a reflection of a reflection of a reflection of... ... of what? God, nowadays I can't even be bothered to explain anything. I feel like a character in a novel, being pulled along by a pen that I used to love to use, but by now it's a tired chore that I just do, and try not to think about. But, once in awhile, some little wisp comes tickling my nose with a scrap of an emotion I can barely recall, and I feel something beautiful and otherworldly. I guess it's a way to travel back in time... maybe it's some kind of miniscule escape into a dream. Just a tease, an easily lost impression. Lost out of the window, lost out of the ends of my hair, lost out of the shadows underneath my bed. Tiny fragments, of what I don't know. On another note, or maybe not so much, I understand why, Esther Greenwood. At least, I think I can understand. I've been trying to piece it together, been thinking it over, and it makes sense to me why. I wish I knew if there was a word for it, because I feel it, too. "The Problem That Has No Name." I don't know if we're reliving any certain overly domestic era, and I don't even believe that it was only then that it happened. I think that it just always is. Everything just hanging over your head, inadequacy like shackles, and everything fake. Living in a Surrealist painting, only the beauty is the evil, and it isn't really real, and you can't be part of it. You have to melt, down, you have to fall into the cracks like dust. Ahhh. Who knows if I'm making any sense. I never do, anyway. And besides, it's a futile thing to think about. It's a point that's impossible to make and be certain of, a totally useless problem to solve. Because everything's not mathematical, and I know I'm rambling by now, but I just can't ever figure things out, and have them stay that way. They unravel, like the most perfect red sweater caught in some ugly steel machine. |