"- don't be so quick to knock it. People don't usually part with the weird shit they personally know because they know how easy it will be to punch holes in. Now I'm tellin you somethin. It's for you to poke through the soup and find the meat." John Patrick Shanley's 'the dreamer examines his pillow'

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

to some earth

I love writing because I do it alone, and no one can hear me, even though I’m shouting.

If you were sitting cross legged across from me in those silly pants you wear
And I said now tell me all the things you want to tell me, and you told me the things you will never tell me to my face, the things I want to hear, and you told me
Then I would tell you this:

I would tell you that I long to be around you.
I would tell you hate your stinkin guts because when you look at me you see that I don’t know who I am,
And you see perhaps who I could be, and you hate it,
Because in a way you are me, and I’m killing you by refusing to paint with all the colors i have in me.
I would tell you when you enter a room I’m inhabiting, the breath I thought was there disappears and I look at myself without thinking, without trying, I’m conscious of my body and appearance in all its awkwardness and truth, and you make me want to puke all the falsity out of my aching belly and cry, just because I can.
You challenge my every thought. I think about you all the time.
And I am me when I think about you, because honesty happens when your name comes up, in my head, in my talking, and I wish that you were in the air
Then each person that wakes up and remembers to breathe would remember themselves and why they can breathe.
You remind me that I am insane, and the only way to keep living is to hold on to my own personal insanity, not to let it be washed away in the gray river, the watercolor fog, the leaves and seasons and stagnant false wishes and the pretense of hope.

I want you to tell me all the things you don’t like about humanity that you see every day in me, so that I can receive the slap in the face and continue with the sting, and I want you to tell me every week what you see so the sting doesn’t fade. I want life to hurt so I don’t forget why I walk into work and why I come home, and so that I stop laughing at tragedy, and stop weeping at blue skies.
I want so stop being paper and start being pulp, the stuff things are made out of, not blank and complete, waiting for someone to use for their own purpose.

Did I ever tell you that one day I looked at your face and saw more of me than I see in myself? That I laughed because there’s no one else who made me feel like I was, but I knew that it was in everyone, just not so apparent? That I got a glimpse of what me means – that it really means everyone else inside of me and me inside out? You’re the earth. I miss the smell of earth when I see you.


Post a Comment

<< Home