Curled up, feline, by the window she slept off the night before. Across the room from her I, the writer, tried to grope for words on which to carry my thoughts. Words which sunk halfway to their destination like ships over-heavy with their bloated cargo. The coffee bubbling and burning off the stove in the kitchen, sat ignored but incessant like an irritating relative. The gurgles of the washing machine like sink holes dragged my thoughts down, vanishing in a whisp of sea spray.
Do you want me to draw you a picture? Capitalism is dying, and my body is not as resilient as it used to be. I ate a french-fry, now I'm cramming leafy greens into my face-hole, chewing 'til my cheeks ache. Capitalism is dying, everything is fake. anarchy is rising, money is on fire. People are exchanging products on the web. The internet is pistol-whipping citizens, who are handing over their wallets and jewels. My spirit is not as resilient as it used to be. I'm pointing my ear-hole towards the poverty-ambassadors. I'm giving fresh clean socks to every legitimate panhandler I can find.
It's getting unbearably hot. I need to move my bed across the room, right underneath that ceiling fan.
This is difficult - writing about things that aren't remotely related to you is tough. There's a pause in between the sentences I make up in my head. There are no words in that pause. There's just you. When these occur, they seem eternal, which makes me wonder if the sentences I make up in my head are the actual pauses. Makes me wonder if my every interaction with the objects around me is a break from thinking of you and from remembering the fragrance of your hair…
I'm going to bed now. And I'm going to see you when I close my eyes. You'll probably be staring at me with that cold look on your face, the face you make when I say something stupid like "I want this song to be played at my funeral". Or maybe you'll be blushing, your face pink, and your lips failing miserably at concealing your admiration for my wit. Sometimes you'll not be there and I'll only remember the warmth of your hugs. And all of this will keep me awake. All of this will slip me silently into the realm of dreams, and the world will think I've fallen asleep.
Last night we completed year number two of our newly found tradition. As I sat across the train car table, nothing could even compare to the sight of you. We sipped on fancy water like it was wine, while we sat there and reminisced about what the year had brought us. We realized then, that not much had changed. We were still having the same conversations that we had the year before, the same silly jokes and the name calling. We sat there, in love, but a love that was different than before. You see, last year, we had a kiddish love. The kind where everything you said was funny, and I just rolled my eyes in utter bliss. Although the conversations seemed to be the same, they turned out to be quite different. Now, our love was mature. Instead of the giddiness like that of last year, there was a serious tone. We talked about life, about our wedding, about each other. Then you mentioned that you couldn't make every decision for me, and that I would just have to learn how to do it for myself sometimes. As I heard those words, they had a sting to them. A year ago, you would have readily made any of the decisions that I would face. But something has changed. You were being truthful. So as my eyes teared up, I realized you loved me even more than before. No longer were you willing to cushion my every fall, but rather you were willing to help me grow. Although we picked at each other and peeled back the layers to get underneath, it was all done love. I realized then, at that moment, that I would rather have a truthful, honest love, over a sugarcoated wonderland. Without a doubt, I would choose the endless nights of the same old things, rather than a love where I felt like I had to be more than I really was. You accept me as is, but you encourage my best. And that in itself is better than any silly life of pointless adventures.
arent we all just patterns in the same picture, a child with a green crayon waiting for his dad to come home, a boy on a sofa doodling while the man with his clipboard tries to save his sanity, a man lying on concrete scratching pictures between metal bars, a disgrace contained in padding creating patterns of us in his head screaming for his dad who never came back