Little Gal
08-27-2012, 01:37 PM
I know I want to write about something.
But when while looking at people walking down and smiling upon one another I see what I want to write, I keep looking till it passes away. So swift a going. Sometimes I remember what I need to think of, sometimes it is not what it was earlier, sometimes I think of a word and see it spreading like fingers, looking for...
If you ask me why not have I written for this long, do I know what to tell you? And I know after a while you will walk back to thinking I have closed myself.
Sometimes I see oceans--looking at stairs becoming waves stoned somewhere, somehow, and before I can disbelieve it or step aside, I am called back in me, and I know then that they are stairs. Perfect, white marble stairs which have dirt along edges, waves don’t hold edges, edges don’t keep in dirt.
When I hold my shadow behind me, I know not which is the shadow, or how must I believe in one or both, and what must I do with the knowing. I walk alone holding her hands, I tell her I am ugly, I tell her I love her, but in the end, I forget who is speaking.
While spending nights in bright light I know every door that I may look for, will hold no way if opened. I know that I must do what I should be doing, even though I do not believe in any of it, but what may I believe or deny or just hide myself from? Can anyone tell me, why looking at fields and long thick grass growing, that stand quiet when it rains thick--not stopping, making homes for fire flies brooding over their heads; I feel I have found my looked-for? It finishes inside me, the sight, and leaves me its dream to write it down as I have. And when I write it, I know again, it is not what it had been then, not what I want to write about.
I stop there, knowing again, I want to write about something.
But when while looking at people walking down and smiling upon one another I see what I want to write, I keep looking till it passes away. So swift a going. Sometimes I remember what I need to think of, sometimes it is not what it was earlier, sometimes I think of a word and see it spreading like fingers, looking for...
If you ask me why not have I written for this long, do I know what to tell you? And I know after a while you will walk back to thinking I have closed myself.
Sometimes I see oceans--looking at stairs becoming waves stoned somewhere, somehow, and before I can disbelieve it or step aside, I am called back in me, and I know then that they are stairs. Perfect, white marble stairs which have dirt along edges, waves don’t hold edges, edges don’t keep in dirt.
When I hold my shadow behind me, I know not which is the shadow, or how must I believe in one or both, and what must I do with the knowing. I walk alone holding her hands, I tell her I am ugly, I tell her I love her, but in the end, I forget who is speaking.
While spending nights in bright light I know every door that I may look for, will hold no way if opened. I know that I must do what I should be doing, even though I do not believe in any of it, but what may I believe or deny or just hide myself from? Can anyone tell me, why looking at fields and long thick grass growing, that stand quiet when it rains thick--not stopping, making homes for fire flies brooding over their heads; I feel I have found my looked-for? It finishes inside me, the sight, and leaves me its dream to write it down as I have. And when I write it, I know again, it is not what it had been then, not what I want to write about.
I stop there, knowing again, I want to write about something.