We inch closer to that final moment, in shuffles and sniffs. we brush our hair, smell our sleeves, feeling every crease until every thread speaks to us. But its more than just touch, and we know that.
We feel the light upon us, in titillating flashes and colours, and cannot help but wonder about someone or the other. We always think about someone else and when we have seen the light, we think about ourselves (as an afterthought). Perhaps thats why they say we are animals. Because none of this is anything more than a quest for a partner. To sit with, to stand with, to eat with, to sing with, to answer to. To be with. We cannot help but wonder what the light would do. Does it fly? Or is it just momentarily suspended in the air, on a rope that hangs by seven threads? Will it come crashing down on us? If it does, will it hurt?
We stop to hear the music. Words put to a tune, or a tune put to words. Its rhythmic adjustment, and it makes us jump up and down, our insides beating fast to catch up with the rush thats going to our heads. We sweat; every drop a testimony to our desperation to be part of a scheme. You, me, us, them, the voices, the beats, the lights, the rhythm, the masses. Thats what we've been reduced to, now. Thats all we're worth anymore. Believe it.
Sometimes they stop to see if the crowd sings along.
No, they stop to let the crowd hear themselves sing.
No, they stop to hear the crowd sing.
No, dumbfuck. They stop for a drink.
After enough of the light has been soaked into our skin, you realise that there remain some things too ephemeral to think twice about. Then the transience of it all hits you hard from behind, and makes you bend over double and choke in the shock of it all. You never thought about it before, and when you do, you don't know what else to think about. Now, not even the light will distract you.
They say she will wait. She knows its too late. She knows more than you think she does. She knows more than bones and fingers and skin. She knows more than tears, whoever they belong to. She knows more than the glint in your eye when you smile. Frankly, she knows more than she wants to know. She knows more than what she believes is true.
But its more than the truth, and you know that.
Now you know all you can do is wait, upon midriffs and the waves and tides of hair.
We feel the light upon us, in titillating flashes and colours, and cannot help but wonder about someone or the other. We always think about someone else and when we have seen the light, we think about ourselves (as an afterthought). Perhaps thats why they say we are animals. Because none of this is anything more than a quest for a partner. To sit with, to stand with, to eat with, to sing with, to answer to. To be with. We cannot help but wonder what the light would do. Does it fly? Or is it just momentarily suspended in the air, on a rope that hangs by seven threads? Will it come crashing down on us? If it does, will it hurt?
We stop to hear the music. Words put to a tune, or a tune put to words. Its rhythmic adjustment, and it makes us jump up and down, our insides beating fast to catch up with the rush thats going to our heads. We sweat; every drop a testimony to our desperation to be part of a scheme. You, me, us, them, the voices, the beats, the lights, the rhythm, the masses. Thats what we've been reduced to, now. Thats all we're worth anymore. Believe it.
Sometimes they stop to see if the crowd sings along.
No, they stop to let the crowd hear themselves sing.
No, they stop to hear the crowd sing.
No, dumbfuck. They stop for a drink.
After enough of the light has been soaked into our skin, you realise that there remain some things too ephemeral to think twice about. Then the transience of it all hits you hard from behind, and makes you bend over double and choke in the shock of it all. You never thought about it before, and when you do, you don't know what else to think about. Now, not even the light will distract you.
They say she will wait. She knows its too late. She knows more than you think she does. She knows more than bones and fingers and skin. She knows more than tears, whoever they belong to. She knows more than the glint in your eye when you smile. Frankly, she knows more than she wants to know. She knows more than what she believes is true.
But its more than the truth, and you know that.
Now you know all you can do is wait, upon midriffs and the waves and tides of hair.
posted by sedder at 10:55 am
1 Comments:
"They say she will wait. She knows its too late. She knows more than you think she does. She knows more than bones and fingers and skin. She knows more than tears, whoever they belong to. She knows more than the glint in your eye when you smile. Frankly, she knows more than she wants to know. She knows more than what she believes is true."
well this line made my nose hurt.
as always, fantastic writing that consumes me all at once.
<3
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