Morning sunshine spilling on the carpet, warming my toes. Cluster flies in the windows, the continuous buzzing a distraction, overwhelming the quiet awakening of the world outside, the crickets and frogs, the leaves rustling. They buzz and fly and hit themselves on the walls, not knowing where to go, how to get out. Straining against the glass panes as if wanting to get to a world that is unattainable to them. They will die soon, too, without having satisfied their hunger for this life, because they couldn’t fathom another way to live. I feel (and fear) I am one of them. How disappointing to compare oneself to a cluster fly. At least I have this patch of sunlight to remind me of the movement of the day, as I stay still, still, still.
Moonbeams like the fingers of ghosts unraveling my French braid. This is an intimacy I do not recognize, one that must have gotten past Customs by hiding beneath the lapel of an expert traveler. If I let myself I could bask in the novelty of being touched without having to reciprocate. But I cannot, and must not, because it is a lie. Even if the price is small I would still lose something in the end. And it is always myself.
“For pain words are lacking. There should be cries, cracks, fissures, whiteness passing over chintz covers, interference with the sense of time, of space; the sense also of extreme fixity in passing objects; and sounds very remote and then very close; flesh being gashed and blood sparting, a joint suddenly twisted — beneath all of which appears something very important, yet remote, to be just held in solitude.”—Virginia Woolf (via forestmilk)
Have you ever met somebody, online or not, that you just wanted to know everything about them? You want to sit with them and listen to their thoughts and dreams and opinions. And you wish they would listen to you, too. You are so convinced you could be friends, but still you do not know how to talk to them properly. And you are so scared and convinced that they do not find you nearly as interesting as you find them. *sigh*
I wish there was an Hogwarts House for artists and creative people. A House for readers and writers and painters and poets. A House for dreamers. They would make their own publications, and trade zines between classes.