#215

i've tried about everything just to feel something for a single moment. everything's so fast now, and in your face. we're supposed to buy buy buy, because hell, what else are we going to do with our lives? can't be uncomfortable. or inconvenienced. we socialize behind our computers, at best, more likely a phone. can't stand to feel texture under our fingers, get a papercut. who gets a papercut anymore? and if we do, we're gonna sue Mead, dammit.
all the time i spent chasing new highs- money, skydiving, fast cars, the women (can't remember the details of a single one) didn't do a thing for me. just left me here with a whiskey voice, smoker's lungs and a bad back. i never offered anyone any real kindness or hope. never did anything for anybody but myself. and for all the moments i spent enjoying the moment, i could have put them all together and had something left over. a soul, maybe.

#214

the digital clock read-out was broken, but the still-blackened windows and frosted grass told me what i already knew. for a moment i cursed myself for forgetting my staff key, then found the door to the commons area already open.
he didn't look surprised to see me, and he pointed a rough hand towards the tea kettle. still hot.
i breathed in cinnamon and cardamom, faint ginger root. "couldn't sleep?" and it was more of an explanation than a question. immediately i knew it wasn't needed. crossing my legs in the chair, i pulled a worn blanket around my shoulders.
cupping a brown clay teacup with both hands, he opened his eyes to meet my gaze. i felt suddenly comforted, less awkward, simplistic.

"even the night time is beautiful. we mustn't always sleep through it."
the words soaked into the walls, like lacquer into weathered wood.

#213

henry rollins said that if you hate"the man" or your parents, revenge was in becoming better. earn more, he said. live longer. be more educated.

vengeful plan of action:
there's a Ph.D. on my wall. check.
their time's ticking down and i'm healthier than ever. check.
my bank statement shows another six figures every year.

ah, i feel so fulfilled! i have beaten them! squashed the man!

but, just in case, there's always fire ants.

#212

oh, right, so i'm supposed to thank you for the flowers even though i never asked for them. i never said i was grateful.
beet-red, open-mouthed, wild-eyed. it's not that becoming. guess i wasn't supposed to tell you that. especially during an argument.
is it still an argument if it's one-sided?
pieces of your indignant tirade hit me. something about sacrifice. something about caring or not caring.
my stomach hurts. i really shouldn't have eaten that burger for lunch and i say so.
you look at me in disbelief.
you're saying something about being the best boyfriend in the world. i blink once. guess life's not fair, huh?

#211

i talk about you from time to time. don't worry, i don't use your name. and even if i did, no one here knows who you are.
but, like most things, that was your choice too.
at first i was hurt; it confused me that you got bored. we were spontaneous and brilliant together. you brought words out of me that i never knew i had. for awhile, i thought i showed you just how much love could be real for you.
now i get it. you thrive on instability- you create mistakes and insecurities, and i saw too much in you that was strong and complete and good, and that... well, that wouldn't fit with your constant need for misery.
you have found nothing. exactly what you are looking for. you just don't know it yet.

#210

we slept to an hour that is usually considered late, like we slept in, you know what i mean, but he didn't comment on it or apologize for seeming lazy. the sun was up and high, trying different angles from the drawn blinds like a peeping tom.
i sat next to him, eating our apple jacks, and staring at my still-winter-white legs, flexing and stretching my muscles, and he puts an old Cash record on. i feel like a dreamer again- planning for the next stage of life, hoping for the best and ticking off mental laundry lists of everything beautiful coming in big numbers; ignoring the firm reality of input vs output.
today, for now, we are staying here, in a single moment.

#209 (compliments to w. whitman)

she pauses for moment beside the last picture in the hall, placing a trembling hand on the glass. a crooked-lipped boy grows from infancy to adulthood in the space between the foyer and the den.
"A child said 'What is the grass?' fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he."
she knows that all things begin because they are meant to end.
"I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps."
there is no need to look. every smile is memorized, the cowlicked hair (so obvious no matter the style), the creases of every ironed shirt etched into her mind.
"All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier."