goyoyofosoco
09/19/06, 08:03 AM
It's time to rant and to rave, because I'm feeling crea...tive enough to put stuff in my head onto paper that's been laying around me, blank for days. There are only so many ways that I can begin the same sentences that keep showing their ugly faces in the places where they are far from welcome. Where is this coming from, this instinct that pins me to both my knees in agony? It saddens me to the point where I roll up a joint, and hope with all of my soul that I'm not doing this just to forget you.
My words come out like plastic, so generically crafted, so I get distracted, and start sifting through shadows of these photo albums holding pictures from a time when I truly felt happy. I put down my pages, all my words and my phrases, just to get medicated by the other drug I never could quit. It's making my heart tick, feeling nostalgic, and I'm feeling the fall you conditioned me to fear: Getting lost in abysses, preferences and wishes, thinking of consequences if some things went differently... Things never change for me.
There's one picture that reaches out, leaving me speechless every single time I place a fingerprint upon it. It lingers with me far after my biased eyes have closed, and it's the moment where he finally knows what it is he's up against. The gravity's pulling. Why hasn't he bullied his way into being in her arms, and decided to leave the charming facade he used to lead her on, on the kitchen counter in his home? The distance was micro as he walked on a tightrope that could probably snap or disappear at any time...
...and in the middle of his other life, he remembers all the butterflies he felt in his stomach, the first time he finally touched her...
Photographs are a man-made path of reaching backwards to your past, and finding what was there that you've forgotten. The words that escape from my fingers vibrations become the narration, when you're the subject of a snapshot.
My words come out like plastic, so generically crafted, so I get distracted, and start sifting through shadows of these photo albums holding pictures from a time when I truly felt happy. I put down my pages, all my words and my phrases, just to get medicated by the other drug I never could quit. It's making my heart tick, feeling nostalgic, and I'm feeling the fall you conditioned me to fear: Getting lost in abysses, preferences and wishes, thinking of consequences if some things went differently... Things never change for me.
There's one picture that reaches out, leaving me speechless every single time I place a fingerprint upon it. It lingers with me far after my biased eyes have closed, and it's the moment where he finally knows what it is he's up against. The gravity's pulling. Why hasn't he bullied his way into being in her arms, and decided to leave the charming facade he used to lead her on, on the kitchen counter in his home? The distance was micro as he walked on a tightrope that could probably snap or disappear at any time...
...and in the middle of his other life, he remembers all the butterflies he felt in his stomach, the first time he finally touched her...
Photographs are a man-made path of reaching backwards to your past, and finding what was there that you've forgotten. The words that escape from my fingers vibrations become the narration, when you're the subject of a snapshot.