Arms Outstretched
I wrote this bit a few days ago:
Listen: all I want to do right now is listen to sad music. Or, failing that, all I want to do is listen to love songs and run an inventory of all my failures. Let's set up a little index, a little catalog, a little database.
Here's what I love, though: that the heart keeps running its course oblivious to all common sense, like some hamster in some bright-blue wire-mesh wheel. The heart, the body, the world--we all go on.
Listen: I miss my hamster. I miss Molly.
Or, because you're here, because you're reading this, I'd like to know where you've been, where you're going, whether you've felt this tiny yawning void too. Did I say hello? Did I tell you I was happy to see you?
It's late--I should have been asleep half-an-hour ago. It's late and I'm not sure what I wanted to tell you. I'm a bit happy, I'm a bit sad. But that's all of us. Somehow, for some reason, it seemed really important to find the words for it and now I can't remember why.
I wrote this bit a few days ago:
Somewhere, in some parallel universe, there's a dictionary of cumbersome words for cumbersome feelings. In this dictionary there's probably a word for the weeks where you're feeling slightly off all day, from morning to night, and where all the things that give you (I mean, by the way, me) comfort have been slightly tweaked, so that everything you love--exercise, reading, writing, company, solitude--is just slightly irritating, as are you. You, right now, are slightly irritated and in turn irritating. With yourself. With the world. With your face. With your vanity. With your monstrous self-regard. With your navel-gazing. And this irritation--which is very much a real irritation, a kind of minute physical void right below the sternum--Anyway. It goes on. You needn't hear the rest of it, since it's more of the same. And, at any rate, the irritation is gone. It's been replaced by an inexplainable loneliness--inexplainable because this week I've not gone a day without spending at least a bit of time with people, all sorts of people, people whose wonderfulness is undeniable and a boon and a source of amazement. As in: these are amazing people, these people I know.
Listen: all I want to do right now is listen to sad music. Or, failing that, all I want to do is listen to love songs and run an inventory of all my failures. Let's set up a little index, a little catalog, a little database.
Here's what I love, though: that the heart keeps running its course oblivious to all common sense, like some hamster in some bright-blue wire-mesh wheel. The heart, the body, the world--we all go on.
Listen: I miss my hamster. I miss Molly.
Or, because you're here, because you're reading this, I'd like to know where you've been, where you're going, whether you've felt this tiny yawning void too. Did I say hello? Did I tell you I was happy to see you?
It's late--I should have been asleep half-an-hour ago. It's late and I'm not sure what I wanted to tell you. I'm a bit happy, I'm a bit sad. But that's all of us. Somehow, for some reason, it seemed really important to find the words for it and now I can't remember why.
