onyourporch.
Violins make for sad music. Italics make for sad words. Headphones call for solace, shaking fingers allow insanity. Squinty eyes assume inebriation, drooping shoulders consider exhaustion. Deconstruct, it what your college is all about. Break it into peices, shred the peices, tear apart the singular peice of paper, shred the leaves, shatter the glass. Makes wholes into parts; create problems where there are none, question everything, assume nothing.
It would be easy, to differentiate between black and white, between the superhero and the villian, between right and wrong. It would be easy for me to have the good guy and the bad guy, I crave that naivety that would transport me to such a leveled playing field. But where am I? Im nuanced, im thinking through waves of color, textures and motives and grains and smooths. I fly through levels of solace and circumstance until my mind spins with the immaterial growth of thoughts and time frames and nature and instinct. I reach rock bottom everyday, sure that sleep and solitude will make it better but I wake only to have realized that rock bottom was just a euphamism for the twists and turns my life has taken.
Your heart beat is in sync with the guitar, for a second you stop typing and allow waves of grief to flow through you, till your heart feels so dented that its going to capsize under the sheer weight of emotion upon emotion upon meltdown. You open your eyes and return to task, shifty eyes and sweaty palms, everything an explanation of all the nothings that flitter in your mind. You feel momentum and you try to measure it, but it leaves as soon as you try to quantify it, much like dreams that you try to remember but find to be slipping away with every resurgence of effort to recall.
The way to judge the progress of a society is to see how much it can do without thinking.
Childhood was a funny time. I dont remember big chunks of it. I feel robbed of a childhood that I myself have stolen, one that ended when I shot up and got a deep set voice at the age of 12. If you look like an adult and sound like an adult you may as well be assumed to be one. And so they dress you in grown up clothes and expose you to grown up things and you become a grown up, you emulate what you see around you, you become what you are conjured up to be. And then the threads in your suit start to come out, or you trip on your grown up lehnga and you realize that you've been placed in an oversized position. And at the end of the day, your still that awkward 12 year old, just a lot better at faking it.
Grip. Release. Grip. Release.
My fingers are so so so so so so tired.
It would be easy, to differentiate between black and white, between the superhero and the villian, between right and wrong. It would be easy for me to have the good guy and the bad guy, I crave that naivety that would transport me to such a leveled playing field. But where am I? Im nuanced, im thinking through waves of color, textures and motives and grains and smooths. I fly through levels of solace and circumstance until my mind spins with the immaterial growth of thoughts and time frames and nature and instinct. I reach rock bottom everyday, sure that sleep and solitude will make it better but I wake only to have realized that rock bottom was just a euphamism for the twists and turns my life has taken.
Your heart beat is in sync with the guitar, for a second you stop typing and allow waves of grief to flow through you, till your heart feels so dented that its going to capsize under the sheer weight of emotion upon emotion upon meltdown. You open your eyes and return to task, shifty eyes and sweaty palms, everything an explanation of all the nothings that flitter in your mind. You feel momentum and you try to measure it, but it leaves as soon as you try to quantify it, much like dreams that you try to remember but find to be slipping away with every resurgence of effort to recall.
The way to judge the progress of a society is to see how much it can do without thinking.
Childhood was a funny time. I dont remember big chunks of it. I feel robbed of a childhood that I myself have stolen, one that ended when I shot up and got a deep set voice at the age of 12. If you look like an adult and sound like an adult you may as well be assumed to be one. And so they dress you in grown up clothes and expose you to grown up things and you become a grown up, you emulate what you see around you, you become what you are conjured up to be. And then the threads in your suit start to come out, or you trip on your grown up lehnga and you realize that you've been placed in an oversized position. And at the end of the day, your still that awkward 12 year old, just a lot better at faking it.
Grip. Release. Grip. Release.
My fingers are so so so so so so tired.
posted by discopapaya at 12:18 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home