2004-09-28
And The Music Was Crashing...
hearing: Paper Hangers - mewithoutYou
reading: In The Days of the Comet by H.G. Wells
feeling: comfortably sedated and drugged
SHE WAS LIKE WINE TURNED TO WATER THEN TURNED BACK TO WINE
Music is my best friend right now.
I seem to forget how theraputic music can be. I don't think I really understand when I'm exhausted with my music collections.
Of course, I don't think my mind entirely gets around musical concepts in the first place. I can only see shadows of music...it's one of the few worlds I can't and won't ever understand.
But that's ok. I have my writing. I have my books. Writing is my medium. I understand writing. I understand the delicate art of crafting a story. I'm still honing and perfecting, I always will be, but that's a world I was born to breath in.
So I am content with that. More than content...
But it doesn't mean I still can't really enjoy music. Perhaps I cannot fully appreciate it like I can a well written piece of fiction, but I think that's ok too.
I just wish my cd burner wasn't a stupid piece of crap which hates me. Or then I could get away. Far far away with my music in the cd player...
Far away...
Blasted cd burner...
(oh pst. You can check out my new best friends here. Maybe another time I could talk about what I think of what I downloaded. But I highly doubt I will...)
before & & after
2004-09-28
Sobs Are Always Under The Surface
hearing: nothing
reading: In The Days of the Comet by H.G. Wells
feeling: vaguely evident
Performing acts of kindness for an empty theater
Dining on honesty in restaurants with empty tables
Steadfastly trudging down empty sidewalks
Gaining only echoes of her admissions from the empty alleys
Driving ships of trust along empty dirt roads
Fingering tokens of friendship in empty shops
Soliciting compassion in empty neighborhoods
Tracing figures of speech on empty skating ponds
Searching for companions in an empty world
I dropped off my passengers and took a wrong turn
Lost, afraid, cold, wounded, but all alone
All alone
All she wanted was a kind word�
What were their excuses?
Where is everyone?
In which we trace the outlines
A tiny child grapples my leg
Sometimes gorgeous
Sometimes wretched
By turns he is strong as an ox or withered by disease
He clasps his tiny hands round my neck
He draws his lips in red ink close by
He sucks the life blood from me to gorge his insatiable appetite
Leaves imprints of tiny fingers in beautiful bruises on my neck
He beats me ruthlessly
But will turn to cuddle me in a cold forbidding manner
He wrings the floods of tears from my eyes
And we dance elaborate evasions of predator and prey along the paths of life
A deadly struggle for power
To gain and hold the upper hand
His goal is always death
In any shape or form
I put a deadly poison in his veins and will bring it to him instead
Yet�
It works far too slowly for my enfeebled almost corpse�
Shun him
Damn him
My angel. My demon. My vampire. My comrade. My paintbrush. My contradiction My irony.
My Pain.