The laughter had receded
all too well as we moved closer to the door with bags in hand. The
thick stench of regret had left a less-than-visible green tint on our
place of residence. The dew in the grass now pined for greater places
to hang themselves, as they dried and their enemy the sun would rise
high. We walked on. No more giving looks to the street people pushing
their carts, putting out their cigarettes, and laughing about their
merry failures.
We had considered this place dead. An aqueduct for our pain. The reservoir of what we once knew to be true, but still only kept left to confusion and contempt. As we opened our doors to the chariot that would take us far far from this place, I envisioned you.
A mile away you felt for I could not smell your sweet perfume on the wind any longer. All I saw was the tail of your dress, a mile away, the wind whipping past your windswept hair; and all I could do was laugh, for in this vision I was running towards you. As if you were slipping from me at some unreachable distance on foot. That mile away, too long for the split seconds in my mind you were there. But you are beside of me now. In this car. We are starting the engine and turning the key and not looking back. What we use to know is something shivering and cold, like a small hungry child in the street, in the winter on an empty stomach. You look at me and smile.
"Where will we go?"
I shuffle my feet, ready to apply gas and accept the decisions we so often do.
"Where ever this car will take us."
I lurch forward in this box of metal and wires and plastic and luggage, and make my way to the highway. That rudimentary, redundant monster which can provide you everything or nothing. The greatest love of your life or the deepest horrors of your imagination. New towns will never solve us. We sleep in our problems and live in our glory. All too aware of our faults without confronting them.
I want to write a book. I don't write according to english rules though. I write as it is supposed to read. Suppose I'll care not for the corrections and live for the meaning. Problem #1
+_+
Nov 6, 2006
We had considered this place dead. An aqueduct for our pain. The reservoir of what we once knew to be true, but still only kept left to confusion and contempt. As we opened our doors to the chariot that would take us far far from this place, I envisioned you.
A mile away you felt for I could not smell your sweet perfume on the wind any longer. All I saw was the tail of your dress, a mile away, the wind whipping past your windswept hair; and all I could do was laugh, for in this vision I was running towards you. As if you were slipping from me at some unreachable distance on foot. That mile away, too long for the split seconds in my mind you were there. But you are beside of me now. In this car. We are starting the engine and turning the key and not looking back. What we use to know is something shivering and cold, like a small hungry child in the street, in the winter on an empty stomach. You look at me and smile.
"Where will we go?"
I shuffle my feet, ready to apply gas and accept the decisions we so often do.
"Where ever this car will take us."
I lurch forward in this box of metal and wires and plastic and luggage, and make my way to the highway. That rudimentary, redundant monster which can provide you everything or nothing. The greatest love of your life or the deepest horrors of your imagination. New towns will never solve us. We sleep in our problems and live in our glory. All too aware of our faults without confronting them.
I want to write a book. I don't write according to english rules though. I write as it is supposed to read. Suppose I'll care not for the corrections and live for the meaning. Problem #1
+_+
Nov 6, 2006
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