Treefingers
It's eight o'clock in the morning, and I am alone again in an empty apartment...killing time and killing thoughts and killing aches that refuse to leave without substantial medication. I can't sleep. Again. I am not happy. I am not "if this isn't nice, what is?" -- I am not, contrary to popular belief, without fear or doubt at this odd hour of the morning.
"You're the lord,
Feel desire;
Feel the lord,
Use desire.
See your lord,
Take you higher;
Steal my soul,
His eyes caught fire."
Everyone in this entire apartment complex must still be sleeping. I don't hear a single murmur, a single thudding footstep, the echo of a door swinging shut. Usually these noises all come together to form a single symphony of astounding domestic proportions. Now nothing intrudes on this eerie peace that blankets the five-room cluster. Nothing cuts the clicking of the keyboard. Nothing reverberates, fades, swells, or snaps. I am alone. My hand's bleeding. And where were you when the world went down in flames?
"Disaster in a halo.
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Somewhere there’s a girl with thoughts of him --
She makes wishes in a well, then fears them caving in on her..."
I tried writing again. I can't. Even the product of last time was half-forcd near the end. I can't do it anymore, I think. Nothing ever comes out the way I want it to. It started out, "Red-squilled lips and taffeta slips like dusty-aphanous days of summer-gone.../Press-powdered countenance [porcelainpicture] painted all brassy-lights and brilliant-fights and --" And? And then it stopped. I scribbled out a dozen lines that came after, sitting on a bench with yellow leaves falling in my lap. It was supposed to be one of those love poems, even. I'm bad at writing love poems. Does that look like a love poem? It seems suspiciously like a tragedian's attempt at a journal entry. "Still feel you on the inside, biting through and stinging -- will I ever forget to remember?" It's hard to say. I don't think I can do it anymore. Nothing ever comes out the way I want it to.
Maybe sleep will visit now. Maybe. I'm tired from just looking at all the stuff that's spilled from my head.
"You're the lord,
Feel desire;
Feel the lord,
Use desire.
See your lord,
Take you higher;
Steal my soul,
His eyes caught fire."
Everyone in this entire apartment complex must still be sleeping. I don't hear a single murmur, a single thudding footstep, the echo of a door swinging shut. Usually these noises all come together to form a single symphony of astounding domestic proportions. Now nothing intrudes on this eerie peace that blankets the five-room cluster. Nothing cuts the clicking of the keyboard. Nothing reverberates, fades, swells, or snaps. I am alone. My hand's bleeding. And where were you when the world went down in flames?
"Disaster in a halo.
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Somewhere there’s a girl with thoughts of him --
She makes wishes in a well, then fears them caving in on her..."
I tried writing again. I can't. Even the product of last time was half-forcd near the end. I can't do it anymore, I think. Nothing ever comes out the way I want it to. It started out, "Red-squilled lips and taffeta slips like dusty-aphanous days of summer-gone.../Press-powdered countenance [porcelainpicture] painted all brassy-lights and brilliant-fights and --" And? And then it stopped. I scribbled out a dozen lines that came after, sitting on a bench with yellow leaves falling in my lap. It was supposed to be one of those love poems, even. I'm bad at writing love poems. Does that look like a love poem? It seems suspiciously like a tragedian's attempt at a journal entry. "Still feel you on the inside, biting through and stinging -- will I ever forget to remember?" It's hard to say. I don't think I can do it anymore. Nothing ever comes out the way I want it to.
Maybe sleep will visit now. Maybe. I'm tired from just looking at all the stuff that's spilled from my head.
posted by Ophelia at 8:16 AM
1 Comments:
Sounds similar to my morning.
Words can be hard to get out, hard to get down, and can be even harder to look at, after hours spent on a work, to they are nothing like what wanted them to be. And the sound of one’s own voice can grow draining.
I have gone through both.
If it helps, now that anything you write, I will most gladly read anything your write, even if it just one scribal of a senates.
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