it isn’t that i ache, but the swell in my chest when i tilt up to look at the top of ferris wheels isn’t fear anymore. it isn’t that i ache but instead that while you and i were drunk on your living room rug and you said you’ll find love i didn’t tell you otherwise because i liked the way the words looked in the air between us. i feel no lacking, but the night is a blue that is knifeish, all silver keen like the imagined collar of my future. it isn’t that i want a specific thing, but i am wanting, the soft call of a horizon that peeks out sunsets too far to touch no matter how fast i run.
where am i going. why am i not home here, where it is easy, and where i could build a life unseasonably sad but bearable. i could stop feeling stuck and instead teach myself this is what it means to be planted. i could say that the strange pull in me is only the desire of entropy, to unseam what should be held together.
it isn’t that i yearn, but i picture the blues of oceans and ask - is this the color that belongs to her? when i find her, will i be a better person? i fill my mouth with tongues and chocolate and good times but i cannot pin her down. maybe one day i will step through the mirror and she will be there, easily, hungry for her same ache and want of me.
louis aragon “j’ai rêvé si longtemps de toi que j’en ai perdu la parole” (i dreamt so much of you i lost my voice) vs paul éluard “j’étais si près de toi que j’ai froid près des autres” (i was so close to you i am cold around other people)
“find no shame in starting over. find no shame in going back to the root and beginning again. find no shame in rerouting because the path you took no longer gives you life. find no shame in admitting that you made mistakes along the way. find no shame in starting over.”
“So do the dark in soul expire,
Or live like scorpion girt by fire;
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven,
Unfit for earth, undoom’d for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath,
Around it flame, within it death.”
最好的声音读最美的诗 (The best voice to read the most beautiful poems):
“Tom Hiddleston personally selected 12 world classic poems and presented us with the most charming and affectionate voice. @Himalaya’s record-level production will bring a distinguished experience to your ears. Follow the web link and feel it immediately.”
The man I love hates technology, hates that he’s forced to use it: telephones and microfilm, air conditioning, car radios and the occasional fax. He wishes he lived in the old world, sitting on a stump carving a clothespin or a spoon. He wants to go back, slip like lint into his great-great-grandfather’s pocket, reborn as a pilgrim, a peasant, a dirt farmer hoeing his uneven rows. He walks when he can, through the hills behind his house, his dogs panting beside him like small steam engines. He’s delighted by the sun’s slow and simple descent, the complicated machinery of his own body. I would have loved him in any era, in any dark age, I would take him into the twilight and unwind him, slide my fingers through his hair and pull him to his knees. As it is, this afternoon, late in the twentieth century, I sit on a chair in the kitchen with my keys in my lap, pressing the black button on the answering machine over and over, listening to his message, his voice strung along the wires outside my window where the birds balance themselves and stare off into the trees, thinking even in the farthest future, in the most distant universe, I would have recognized this voice, refracted, as it would be, like light from some small, uncharted star.