Sep. 15, 2006 - I've got my health, I've got my car, and I've my rattling guitar, and for that, I am grateful.
so I have a few new goals for the year in general !
learn to appreciate what I have.
spend less time on the computer. (What a joke. Right?)
spend hours upon hours on writting, again.
work really hard on my Italian!
stop laughing at every awkward couple i am subjected to, it's cruel
learn to be more compassionate in general
watch more indie films.
stop wasting all my money on polaroid film. I just love it so.
get a job
work on my art journal more
exercise more& more&more!!!
Finish Fountainhead, why am I so slow?
& not be seduced by words, fictional and otherwise.
oh, i will be a disappointment at many of these..
Now to jumpstart my writting rampage:
Pretty little things, lined up in a row, smoking cigarettes to the beat of the drums. They can see in your eyes when you are looking through them, through to the street. Pulsing, pacing your way through incandescent bodies, consumed with the finality of the last wail from the inside. Screeching dirty noises push their way into you, down to the capillaries in your lungs, you can feel them creating.
The sensation of leaving behind, left behind, separate and alike, they will writhe around inside you and her until, weeks later, you remember what it was like, before everything really happened. Before you learned to forget by swimming laps in the filthy rivulet, until your stomach turned and the most appealing thing was stretching your bones in the gutters. Before you learned what she really looked like, from the inside out. Before she showed you how to force forgetting.
Shes watching you over against the building, leaning fully. Watching you, watching the girl on the stage through the window, and watching your eyes widen just a little as the girl tosses her hair and touches the reaching fingers of the boys in the crowd. Pretend, pretend like you are right there and its your sweaty palms reaching upwards. Grasping at the bricks, falling down onto the crackling asphalt, and breathing out the broken words onto your broken hands. I remembered you when you were still touching me, only just.
It might be your eyes that she's looking for, but it's all the words you said to all the others before her that you wished you could erase. Disconnect from the realities of past lovers and compromising situations. When she goes home, she scrubs her hands until they bleed so that she can't feel you there at all, not anymore.
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