this is where we look for things
4.26.01 - 8:59
hush, he said. don't move. don't open your mouth. don't change anything and maybe it will stay like this forever. he only said it once but in the echoes she heard it again and again and again and she thought, but it is just the tiniest bit on the cool side, i would like to wear shorts, you know. she could have worn shorts. it wasn't really that cool. especially in the sunshine. she started screaming, not even words, just unintelligible garbage, spewing out all over the place. ha. it didn't change anything. she wore her shorts and was just the tiniest bit chilly. he shook his head in what, embarrassment, disapproval, frustration, the other things. you understand.
look, i made this, she whispered, and she offered her open hands to me and i saw it, tiny, crooked, ugly. i glanced up at her eyes and hissed the words. it's tiny. it's crooked. it's ugly. clearly, she replied. huh.
whatever, she said. i'll get there at 10. besides, i'm missing afternoon cake anyway. if i weren't crazy, i wouldn't be missing afternoon cake, but i am, so i am. besides, she thought, what did crazy people ever do to deserve cake?
the words are simply more interesting when they're cold. there's a certain charm associated with them when they're fresh out of the oven and tender on the inside, but they don't really feel real until the heat is gone and they're weighty, solid, dangerous. this is one feeling. the words are dead and ugly when they're cold. you must handle them inside the fire. it's just not worth it otherwise. what are you risking with those cold stiff words? no one ever got anywhere without having something at stake, you know. this is another feeling.
how can you name your emotions with a single word? can you really wrap the three letters of sad around the blood pounding in your ears, the pressure behind your eyes, the cold in your fingers, the lump of fear in your throat, the heaviness in your bones? i know i would die without words but sometimes i wonder why we even bother. life should be for living, i think sometimes, but my life is not for living, my life is a story to be told, disjointed and hazy and largely insensible.
(which makes it just like yours, really.)
