lishman123
09-07-2009, 06:00 PM
Two of us
Do I remember that rainy night when I first met you in the bar at the gig? Is it possible to remember the slide into sleep, or the hypnotist's fingers on your eyelids? I only know that it happened because at some stage I awoke; thankfully it was due to your glistening – you shone like a star despite being at the height of intoxication. Its funny how things are perceived so differently by others.
Some things are clear, the lucid fragments of a dream, a conversation over the phone one day and laughing at irrelevant comments. We both felt down because I was bewildered by another, and you were hurt by the ones you thought you loved. I hated it, and asked myself how it was that time moved so slowly. It's okay, I concluded falsely, it doesn't matter, because it will end and time passed is all the same, and anyway, in the end it's not time that you're left with – but I could never quite put my finger on what.
I wanted to find happiness, and hold onto it when I found it. But you can't bank happiness. You can't keep it for when you need it and you cannot give to someone else simply by having it yourself – at least this is the frame of mind I had slipped into.
I thought I would be content to watch the river flow past and drift away on the scent of water lilies, take photographs of the things I saw and speculated over, I watched days become nights and nights gently give way to days, believing I was shedding my cares when really I was storing regrets. Now I know that reading is dreaming, that dreaming is sleeping and thought inaction. When I wake I find that all I have left is thoughts of you. Is this the reason why I feel like I have lost myself a little? But argue the fact I wouldn’t change us for the world.
Why go back to the grey, the dirt, the noise, the rush? There is a lifetime to do those things. I know you chase that dream of yours, but the dream is so sweetly deferred here. Here I feel as if I am absorbing the sunshine and serenity, and I wish that you would join me. For all my senses are deadened, when your not around. Everything turns to ash.
I am writing this in a flickering yellow and blackness. This is the best time – at night in my room, talking and reading, the world melting away into words as the daylight subsides, although sometimes a phrase is so beautiful I have to walk around a little just to let them settle in my mind. One of these made me think of you. 'Do that which makes you happy to do, and you will do right.' I could think of many that remind me of you, but at the moment this seems accurate.
The radiator underneath my window is rattling, but has now fallen silent, I wasn’t even aware of the noise it was making. In its absence the air in my room seems to be hanging with that same question; how would my life be if you weren’t actually in it? Would I even be able to function? But as usual, I’ve let the air receive no answers and it has slipped back into its lazy circulation.
Do I remember that rainy night when I first met you in the bar at the gig? Is it possible to remember the slide into sleep, or the hypnotist's fingers on your eyelids? I only know that it happened because at some stage I awoke; thankfully it was due to your glistening – you shone like a star despite being at the height of intoxication. Its funny how things are perceived so differently by others.
Some things are clear, the lucid fragments of a dream, a conversation over the phone one day and laughing at irrelevant comments. We both felt down because I was bewildered by another, and you were hurt by the ones you thought you loved. I hated it, and asked myself how it was that time moved so slowly. It's okay, I concluded falsely, it doesn't matter, because it will end and time passed is all the same, and anyway, in the end it's not time that you're left with – but I could never quite put my finger on what.
I wanted to find happiness, and hold onto it when I found it. But you can't bank happiness. You can't keep it for when you need it and you cannot give to someone else simply by having it yourself – at least this is the frame of mind I had slipped into.
I thought I would be content to watch the river flow past and drift away on the scent of water lilies, take photographs of the things I saw and speculated over, I watched days become nights and nights gently give way to days, believing I was shedding my cares when really I was storing regrets. Now I know that reading is dreaming, that dreaming is sleeping and thought inaction. When I wake I find that all I have left is thoughts of you. Is this the reason why I feel like I have lost myself a little? But argue the fact I wouldn’t change us for the world.
Why go back to the grey, the dirt, the noise, the rush? There is a lifetime to do those things. I know you chase that dream of yours, but the dream is so sweetly deferred here. Here I feel as if I am absorbing the sunshine and serenity, and I wish that you would join me. For all my senses are deadened, when your not around. Everything turns to ash.
I am writing this in a flickering yellow and blackness. This is the best time – at night in my room, talking and reading, the world melting away into words as the daylight subsides, although sometimes a phrase is so beautiful I have to walk around a little just to let them settle in my mind. One of these made me think of you. 'Do that which makes you happy to do, and you will do right.' I could think of many that remind me of you, but at the moment this seems accurate.
The radiator underneath my window is rattling, but has now fallen silent, I wasn’t even aware of the noise it was making. In its absence the air in my room seems to be hanging with that same question; how would my life be if you weren’t actually in it? Would I even be able to function? But as usual, I’ve let the air receive no answers and it has slipped back into its lazy circulation.