Monday, September 15, 2008
These things you want him to know but can’t say. Plans you make and tactics you rehearse because you are afraid to stand still. Voices in your head, as clear as Joan of Arc’s own saints, leading you in every wrong direction achievable until you are dizzy with hesitancy
Reverie. Music so beautiful that each tendon and vein longs to weep. Peeling back the layers of defenses and fronts until there is nothing but a wisp of a girl. A lost, confused girl who does not know where she fits in the world. If you are not a child, and not an adult, than what are you? You are a transition, a cocoon, an ellipsis. Chasing every melody and finding sanctuary in the transcendence that only symphonies can bring.
There is a secret, hazy midnight dream that holds you back from reincarnation. And you cling. You cling and you hold on to the threads of what cannot and should not be. You plea and cry and appeal. If you don’t love me, dear, let me go.
There are days for explicitness, and days to be cryptic. Seasons in which you must cause a scene, and others where you disappear. You don’t mind sitting in the corner anymore. In fact, the world of imaginings is preferable.
Posted by tiffany;; at 8:53 PM