You've stopped writing letters to people you don't know or can't name, and you've stopped expecting replies that you'llnever know if you've gotten. There are some things you can't touch but you can feel. You can't hold it in your hands but you can hold it in other places.
I sit on a train and try to decipher what my center says to me. It must not appear like I am swaying, though I must. It must not appear like I'm calling out, and answering to things that were never asked of me. It must not be noticed, this call that causes you to lean towards me. Consciousness will only disrupt our dance, and I intend on finishing it with all the right steps.
Questions you asked me a long time ago appear in shadows, and echo in songs. Questions I would answer differently, if you asked me again. Questions that mean slightly more than my answers, but slightly less than they're worth. In the syllables they speak, i hear your sounds. In murmurs, I hear your words. They come alive, and perform for me, with rigour, and the anticipation of applause.
I wonder if you've noticed, my dear, the irony of what it means to be consciously unaware? You can't hold my hand on your right and speak to the clouds on your left. It just don't work that way. When i sit down and trace the lines on your palm with my finger, its not just my finger speaking to you. Its me, in my entirety. The sweat that runs from the end of my finger to your palm, it carries a charge that you feel. I feel you feeling it. Yet I feel your grip on yourself, and i wonder if you know what i'm thinking.
You're consciously unaware, and I'm just conscious. That's the difference between us.
Its all a race, do you realise? Are you with me, or against me? By me or behind me? I could go on forever with these questions, but it takes time, and my rabbit awaits my arrival with his tick-tock clock. If my every step doesnt synchronise with his every second, he will make sure i trip. That would waste even more time, and I intend on winning.
I'll hold all your thoughts, dreams, feelings, words; all your murmurs, sounds, movements, sweat; all your questions, all my answers, and all these voices- wherever i can hold them, and run. I'll run with the wind in my hair, and pray that you make it there soon.
Its been a long time coming, and I'm about to come alive.
I sit on a train and try to decipher what my center says to me. It must not appear like I am swaying, though I must. It must not appear like I'm calling out, and answering to things that were never asked of me. It must not be noticed, this call that causes you to lean towards me. Consciousness will only disrupt our dance, and I intend on finishing it with all the right steps.
Questions you asked me a long time ago appear in shadows, and echo in songs. Questions I would answer differently, if you asked me again. Questions that mean slightly more than my answers, but slightly less than they're worth. In the syllables they speak, i hear your sounds. In murmurs, I hear your words. They come alive, and perform for me, with rigour, and the anticipation of applause.
I wonder if you've noticed, my dear, the irony of what it means to be consciously unaware? You can't hold my hand on your right and speak to the clouds on your left. It just don't work that way. When i sit down and trace the lines on your palm with my finger, its not just my finger speaking to you. Its me, in my entirety. The sweat that runs from the end of my finger to your palm, it carries a charge that you feel. I feel you feeling it. Yet I feel your grip on yourself, and i wonder if you know what i'm thinking.
You're consciously unaware, and I'm just conscious. That's the difference between us.
Its all a race, do you realise? Are you with me, or against me? By me or behind me? I could go on forever with these questions, but it takes time, and my rabbit awaits my arrival with his tick-tock clock. If my every step doesnt synchronise with his every second, he will make sure i trip. That would waste even more time, and I intend on winning.
I'll hold all your thoughts, dreams, feelings, words; all your murmurs, sounds, movements, sweat; all your questions, all my answers, and all these voices- wherever i can hold them, and run. I'll run with the wind in my hair, and pray that you make it there soon.
Its been a long time coming, and I'm about to come alive.
posted by sedder at 7:49 pm
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