Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.
Monday, February 05, 2007
This is much ado for nothing, these are lovebirds burned on acid, but I can still hold your hand, I am willing to still hold your hand. 'Together we are something, something more than nothing', You say but I can’t tell You say, but I can’t tell.
I don’t wanna know the history of anything that you hold dear.
These are the rules by which to submit and never ask for anything.
To sleep you need it all, the feast is now a yawn, the farm has let the piglets out, I knew you wouldn’t leave without stabbing in my heart the words that would suffice to deepen this resilient doubt that you couldn’t do without. They never leave me alone with my Bombs…
It wasn’t until some years ago that the fear cut our soil like a plow, it turned it over like it had no real worth. It left me partly uncovered, left me mostly.
I needed patience long-lasting, but you kept on asking to leave the land we knew so well, and amid my confusion your body kept pushing, too holy to not feel again. But I wanted to say:
What if our lives are spared? What if what comes is the opposite? A relative opposite of despair? Yes, I meant to say: Why if danger never come like we expect it? I meant to say: What do you wanna spread if we can’t prevent it? What do you wanna censor if we can’t oppress it?
To win you need us all.but I can’t hold this gun no more, I should’ve stopped this long ago. They never leave us alone, they never leave us alone with our Bombs.
- ▼ February (3)