"something's wrong."
"what makes you say that?"
"your shirt is white."
"so?"
"so, it's just white. there's nothing on it- no dirt, no ink, no blood."
"i guess you're right."
"so, what's wrong?"
"i don't remember how to speak."
"you're talking right now."
"that's irrelevant."
"yeah?"
"yeah. i'm running my mouth but i'm saying nothing. i'm thinking all these things, and i can't say them. i'm sitting straight but everything is angled and i think i'm falling when i'm only standing still."
"i think you said that very well."
"then maybe i forgot how to see."
"have you?"
"maybe. i'm missing something. like something that's on the tip of my nose and i won't cross my eyes to see it. "
"cross your eyes."
"no."
"why not?"
"i don't want my eyes to get stuck."
"look at me."
"hi."
"what do you see?"
"your eyes are sad. you have a crooked mouth. your hands never touch flatly on your thighs. you look wrong, but beautiful. oh- sorry. i shouldn't say that."
"i don't think you're blind."
"i don't know. maybe i have forgotten how to hear."
"hear, or listen?"
"i can listen. i know what you say isn't what you mean, i can taste the fear on the back of my tongue when you look in only one of my eyes and say, 'no, i'm not afraid.' i can listen to the way your hands shake and your eyes dart to the left when you're nervous. but i can't fucking hear for the life of me."
"what does my heart sound like?"
"it sounds like it's crying, but sometimes like a nuclear explosion."
"i think you can hear just fine. and your sense of taste is alright, as well."
"and smell and taste are connected, right? fuck- i don't know what's wrong with me. maybe i can't feel. maybe i can't live."
"why can't you just be alright?"
"because i can't be wrong. i want to know what i'm missing, i want to know why i can't breathe."
"what are you doing?"
"controlled hyperventilation. i'm breathing, and it's beautiful. it's as beautiful as you. i can breathe and taste and see and smell and hear and feel and listen and i can't stop shaking or crying and i'm falling to pieces, but it's so fucking beautiful because it means i'm not dead."
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Comments
but utterly whimsical
>
[irrelevant face is irrelevant]
--
i was pulling out my heart so i could pin it to my sleeve
red hands
you're wonderful.
--
if you're reading this,
then you're still alive. whether
that be a good or bad thing,
you mean the world to me.
--
Happiness Comes in Bubbles. Sometimes, Bubbles Pop.
--
I'll visit your bones next century.
....!
Your last stanza is so true. "controlled hyperventilation. i'm breathing, and it's beautiful. it's as beautiful as you. i can breathe and taste and see and smell and hear and feel and listen and i can't stop shaking or crying and i'm falling to pieces, but it's so fucking beautiful because it means i'm not dead."
Because that's me yesterday. I was sitting in psychology and thanking God i can count the water spots in the ceiling and take eight breaths a minute and know my heart is still somewhere in my ribcage connected to arteries and that i could see the colour red, and wondered why my hands always tremble profusely every day to the point where sometimes i can't seem to control them.
Beautiful. It's full of everything it needs to be to make me cry inside. I want to fall sideways and sleep on the floor because i can't sit straight up and understand everything you're saying.
(This is a compliment. And your writing is always wonderful. Or is it? I don't know my perception is skewed so the world is sideways. I never could see straight in the first place. At the VERY least, it's always beautiful.)
Um... ignore me. My confusion is wasting your time.
(I've been trying to be honest lately.)
--
Hi!...
I am a proud admin. of project-improve!
I write. I am obsessed with music.
I am insane. I
I paint. I play instruments.
I play videogames. I listen to metal.
I love Jesus.
Any questions?
--
Beware of the cookie ninjas!!
--
...with pudding.
[link]
I have a vivid imagination, or maybe I'm just tired of reality.
That last line really brings everything else together, into a marvelously fantastic point.
--
Whats up?
But wishing stars,
and little men from mars.
Not a great deal of deviations will make me comment.
Maybe I'm an insensitive bastard, or there's somthing stragenly voyeuristic in watching people's work and just lurking, saying nothing about it. But I digress.
Yours was simply too beautiful and profound to remain silent about and I want to take my hat off for you.
Also, not a great deal of deviations will make me feel something. So thank you for this. It's wonderful.
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