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I've lost trace of what home really means, of my mother's obsession with candles and the bookshelf that towers over everyone. I'm an only child, whatever that means: petulant, pouting, making sure to get my way. (Loudmouthed, obscene, beloved.) I hold no confession, no valid observations, just things I've picked up along the way. No real scars, no real experience. Pretend you 'get' me, pretend you 'understand where [I'm] coming from, really' & I'll pretend to care when you give me advice.
It's not easy hiding, not easy stepping on a plane, running (away) when I never really know what's chasing me. I have 29 more hours until I have to make a real decision, the first one I have ever made. I could make lists; see my options in black & blue, see where my life has decided to take me without me even moving.
Believe me, if I could open my mouth and speak words that would change worlds, I would. If I could change someone's mind or even my own, I would. The world keeps on believing what it wants to believe while the preachers bang their pulpits selling a god that's past its (his) use by date, in a worn out package. Believing that time is cyclical while it marches like ants towards some inexplicable end just means you'll get caught in the rip tide, forward (and backward) motion.
Who gets my lies and who gets my truths? I am no prophet; I bring no message of hope & salvation. But I close my eyes and push play, and there he is. I have had a vision of my future, and I'm scared of saying anything. In case, like everything else I have ever hoped for, it doesn't come true. But it's pretty nice, and for once I'm happy.
My life came tumbling down, like an intricate picture made of dominoes. Or sand paintings that Buddhist monks spend hours on, only to destroy them after a day. Now I'm busy separating the colours and putting them back in their appropriate boxes, watching stupid shows on television and going to sleep at half three.
My mind's eye is ridiculously inaccurate, and gives me hope where there is none. I hate that nobody wonders, and nobody asks, and somehow your unhappiness is all my fault. I don't have anything much to contribute, except that everything slipping through my fingers makes me want to let go that much more.
It's not easy hiding, not easy stepping on a plane, running (away) when I never really know what's chasing me. I have 29 more hours until I have to make a real decision, the first one I have ever made. I could make lists; see my options in black & blue, see where my life has decided to take me without me even moving.
Believe me, if I could open my mouth and speak words that would change worlds, I would. If I could change someone's mind or even my own, I would. The world keeps on believing what it wants to believe while the preachers bang their pulpits selling a god that's past its (his) use by date, in a worn out package. Believing that time is cyclical while it marches like ants towards some inexplicable end just means you'll get caught in the rip tide, forward (and backward) motion.
Who gets my lies and who gets my truths? I am no prophet; I bring no message of hope & salvation. But I close my eyes and push play, and there he is. I have had a vision of my future, and I'm scared of saying anything. In case, like everything else I have ever hoped for, it doesn't come true. But it's pretty nice, and for once I'm happy.
My life came tumbling down, like an intricate picture made of dominoes. Or sand paintings that Buddhist monks spend hours on, only to destroy them after a day. Now I'm busy separating the colours and putting them back in their appropriate boxes, watching stupid shows on television and going to sleep at half three.
My mind's eye is ridiculously inaccurate, and gives me hope where there is none. I hate that nobody wonders, and nobody asks, and somehow your unhappiness is all my fault. I don't have anything much to contribute, except that everything slipping through my fingers makes me want to let go that much more.
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