In the silhouette of my face of the train window, lightly traced in charcoal, 2003... lines that never connected in the shadowing, imagination to bridge the gap between influence and style. We could breathe in our young and distant self-conception.. I was always more you than me; but you just thought me strange and somehow intelligent in a way that couldnt be articulated... Ive always been smart enough to see the world just the way I thought it should be, so when it let me down: I could blame myself and all the angels in heaven could have another go round the sunrise in the morning... I paid for it in stagnation... I paid for it in life... Ill pay for the blaspheming for ascending and usurping if only in my own mind and whispering the meanings of glyphs that werent meant to be received by men... I stole the idea of fire and pretended it was mine... The reflection quivers in the summer heat... its just me. The tired man still ponderous, as if from dream... Everything that makes me who I thought I was, patchwork memory simulacrum that Ive become... all the love in the world may as well have been the wine of the ages pissed in my face for lack of willingness to just receive it. Having thought I could ever know better and protect it from myself by adoring its perfection without permutating it within my imperfections Id hid so well, I could tell them point blank as though the scruples of some wiser man... I dont know where this goes... that I had to practically dissect the action of love as though it were not unlike the simple mechanics of walking... Im tired... and miss my Grandfather... and autumns past...
Posted on: Sat, 09 Aug 2014 16:14:23 +0000
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