Bubbles and Green
"Words confessed from a memory,
I feel them at last when I sing of what used to be...
And I sing along like a choir.
If I say good-bye to love...
...Will it go away?"
How is it that the 'being' part of the term 'human being' interests me so much? Why is it that I feel a need to explore the causes behind every emotional fluctuation I experience? If I push hard enough at the theoretical "boundaries" of my psyche, will they finally bow...and then break?
It interests me to no end, the ways in which I allow myself to be overcome by sentiments only half-caused by sources outside myself. Violent swings in my mood are both astonishing and irritating -- and their underpinnings are rooted deep within me. Their foundation was built upon that part of me which dictates what and when I experience certain emotions. Imagine that! Outside sources affect my mood with varying degrees of efficiency...but in the end, it is me that decides to smile, to sob, to laugh, or to bristle.
Ting-a-ling...that's the way the cookie crumbles.
As it stands now, I've allowed myself to sink into a funky little morass of curiosity and fear. "I'm more than just a little curious how you're planning to go about making your amends...to the dead." I promised I wouldn't break him, and now that I know exactly what the "breaking" process entails, I'm worried that I'll be just careless enough to crack the too-delicate exterior. And god, what if he breaks me? I've heard too many flat voices this weekend; I've seen too many colors in too many eyes and I've experienced too much joy and too much unsurety. Things are not back to normal, much to my dismay. Sometimes conversation seems strained -- is this the way it's going to be? Are things going to be delicious face-to-face, but will it/you/I fade when distance prevents spontaneity and touch?
Drama creates in me a desire to lash out. I'm doing my best to stifle the stinging remarks, the indignant silences, and the obstinateness I am sometimes prey to. Let me do an experiment; here -- my thoughts unbridled by chemicals: ...I failed.
No. Too revealing. It was an interesting experience, however, attempting to weave my way between two desks and a couch in order to get back to this computer in time to utilize the lack of inhibitions. Why is this radio station playing nothing that I know? If I hide behind the music, no one will realize that I am terrified, bare, and wounded. "Scar tissue that I wish you saw." I'm adept at hiding it. Pick me up-up-up because I can't go any further with this thing weighting every step; pick me up and brush the leaves out of my hair and make me see that...oh. I found out why your eyes were cold. Oh. Oh, oh, oh. That was brain-blowing.
Could you be everything to me if I asked? No, not "enough" or "not enough," because you're too much. You can't hurt what's already scarred over. Oh, yes you can. That's a lie. Thought I'd move on? Can't. Can't get over you not getting over me. 'People's Court' playing in the background and Cranberries on the computer and "you're a dream to me" if dreams had spines and made you ache, bruise, bleed, and tingle all at once.
Now she's not making any sense. Now she is what she is when she's alone.
I feel them at last when I sing of what used to be...
And I sing along like a choir.
If I say good-bye to love...
...Will it go away?"
How is it that the 'being' part of the term 'human being' interests me so much? Why is it that I feel a need to explore the causes behind every emotional fluctuation I experience? If I push hard enough at the theoretical "boundaries" of my psyche, will they finally bow...and then break?
It interests me to no end, the ways in which I allow myself to be overcome by sentiments only half-caused by sources outside myself. Violent swings in my mood are both astonishing and irritating -- and their underpinnings are rooted deep within me. Their foundation was built upon that part of me which dictates what and when I experience certain emotions. Imagine that! Outside sources affect my mood with varying degrees of efficiency...but in the end, it is me that decides to smile, to sob, to laugh, or to bristle.
Ting-a-ling...that's the way the cookie crumbles.
As it stands now, I've allowed myself to sink into a funky little morass of curiosity and fear. "I'm more than just a little curious how you're planning to go about making your amends...to the dead." I promised I wouldn't break him, and now that I know exactly what the "breaking" process entails, I'm worried that I'll be just careless enough to crack the too-delicate exterior. And god, what if he breaks me? I've heard too many flat voices this weekend; I've seen too many colors in too many eyes and I've experienced too much joy and too much unsurety. Things are not back to normal, much to my dismay. Sometimes conversation seems strained -- is this the way it's going to be? Are things going to be delicious face-to-face, but will it/you/I fade when distance prevents spontaneity and touch?
Drama creates in me a desire to lash out. I'm doing my best to stifle the stinging remarks, the indignant silences, and the obstinateness I am sometimes prey to. Let me do an experiment; here -- my thoughts unbridled by chemicals: ...I failed.
No. Too revealing. It was an interesting experience, however, attempting to weave my way between two desks and a couch in order to get back to this computer in time to utilize the lack of inhibitions. Why is this radio station playing nothing that I know? If I hide behind the music, no one will realize that I am terrified, bare, and wounded. "Scar tissue that I wish you saw." I'm adept at hiding it. Pick me up-up-up because I can't go any further with this thing weighting every step; pick me up and brush the leaves out of my hair and make me see that...oh. I found out why your eyes were cold. Oh. Oh, oh, oh. That was brain-blowing.
Could you be everything to me if I asked? No, not "enough" or "not enough," because you're too much. You can't hurt what's already scarred over. Oh, yes you can. That's a lie. Thought I'd move on? Can't. Can't get over you not getting over me. 'People's Court' playing in the background and Cranberries on the computer and "you're a dream to me" if dreams had spines and made you ache, bruise, bleed, and tingle all at once.
Now she's not making any sense. Now she is what she is when she's alone.
posted by Ophelia at 2:24 PM
2 Comments:
Like Delirium of “The Sandman,” even when she makes no A + B = C sense, still her words hold so much meaning.
I know that pendulum swing, content one moment despairing the next.
I know the strain of conversation, and the twisted up inside feeling of “not back to normal.”
I know this too, as long as both (and the both is important) parties are willing to work at it, willing to try, then anything is possable.
Matt
An insane love now burns above,
the weft of incandescent stars..
For Gabrielle, a fit and perfect stitch of foreign parts.
Whose beauty fostered poets
Whose laugh like silver bells..
Thawed my bitter winter from it's path..
For Gabrielle, whose hair-spun onyx is run with gold. Her rouge lips smack of dark blood, her name in whisper rolls, forever on my tongue.. Lest her memory dissolve
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