Today I want to write, but not beautifully. Today the sky is pouring an ocean full of kisses; inspiration is buzzing, intangibly through the air like carbon monoxide, lulling my eyelids close & pinching the muscles of my throat together. I want to write, today, but I do not want to linger on definitions; finding the right words, stringing together syllables. I want to write but only as the words come to mind, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. I will not slave today.
What is it you fear? You tell me no, out of fear allegedly, but I see nothing to be afraid of other than the stagnate water you’ve allowed yourself to wade in this long. You tell me no yet I can see no logic in the explanation you’ve allowed thus far. I find fault in myself instead.
I am not pretty enough -- No, you do not care. Or do you? Buzzing, buzzing. They must be beautiful to keep you this long despite the abuse. Everyone you speak of, every person you’ve expressed longing for; they are much prettier than me, in your eyes. I am pretty, I am. I’m a pretty face trapped in an empty body that consumes what it misses. My mouth is lonely. Buzzing. I eat, I eat -- I am no longer pretty.
I am too gentle -- This, you care. I am soft, I am fragile. I want to handle you with delicacy, not savagery. I would hurt you, if you asked, but I would never mean it. Is this what you are afraid of? Someone kind who means no harm. In me you can see the future but that scares you because this future is full of flowers & sunsets. Sunrises on cliffs -- Every memory exists already; of that I am sure. We’ve stood above oceans & admired their clarity already. We’ve stared at the sky & counted the stars. You can see it all, the soft, longing, care that’d be for no one but you. Prophetic. Prophetic. Buzzing. As idyllic as it could be, the war-torn never crave simple.
I am too much -- I have no clue. Message after message after question after aching after catastrophe. There is never rest & that, you can see too. I am anything but easy to love; there are so many fallacies, so many hypocrisies in my logic here. Is it simple or complex? Pain filled or curative? I make up for my lack of substance by creating disasters from dust. I proclaim feelings that have no right to exist. I claim the fact that I never fall, rarely fall, yet I’ve fallen hard enough now to shatter the glass mirror around my heart. These things I say -- These beautiful, exhaustive decrees. It is all too much. I am fast, I am hard. Is this what you are afraid of? My instant dedication -- If it is, allow me to explain;
We agree on so much, I do not need many words here in actuality. Magic. Deep connection or nothing at all. I have this theory I haven’t told you about yet where I feel people as real or unreal. I would not say fake; that word doesn’t carry the definition I require for this. Real or unreal. They exist or they do not. I think, or I would like to think, that in everyone there is a universe. Or perhaps a universe exists for each of us outside of ourselves. In these small, selective, private universes, wherever they may be, others have lived. Shared universes, perhaps. Or maybe more like a Venn Diagram. My universe exists here, yours there; we meet in the middle. Real people have existed in my universe -- They are real to me. I’ve met them before, eons ago or perhaps eons in the future. I have known them. Unreal people; our universe never collided. This universe, where we exist now, could be the first that does meet in that way -- Frequently I object. This life, this one here, is for meeting again with the ones I’ve known. The ones I’ve lost.
Does it make sense to you? I imagine it does. You may think I’m crazy though, even if you understand.
I’ve met only a few that have existed with me. I could name them, count them on one hand. Instant, deep, intangible, & indescribable connection that I have known you, them. It’s not an innate understanding -- I will not claim to home details. It is recognition. Seeing an old photograph of an ancestor who looks exactly like your mother, your father, your brother, your sister. Recognition. You never met them, not in this lifetime. But you know them in other ways.
My instant dedication -- It is too much. Buzzing.
