it’s history. it’s poetry.

August 22, 2015

Someone like me, a writer perhaps, has only a finite amount of energy to expend on others. We are born weary. Our souls are old, our touch is worn, our needs ancient.
We are sorrowful, selfish creatures, selfish in time – not possessions, as we must be fulfilled by ever fiber. No action or deed left empty. We are already candles burning from both ends.
Writers are waiting to be read, as we may never be understood. We are assessing the least amount of us we must retire to you. This is why we ask our blind date what is their favorite book.
I know that if you don’t get Holden Caulfield, you were probably bored by the repetition of his thoughts and phrases and found him to be immature, and a definite downer. You’d probably use power words like “successful,” “perseverant,” and “appraised” in a self-description. You have a social calendar and a daily planner and have a hair salon appointment every six weeks. And you’re always on time. You might not be, but you might be. You might also be considered an optimist, or a people person, and you’re probably generous. Maybe you rarely get sick, have or want a family, and are an early riser.
You and I will be friends. You’ll spend more time trying to convince me of our friendship than I do returning your texts, but it doesn’t phase you. You excuse me. I’ll voice being a shitty friend, but will be present at the truly important parts. I will mistake openness of mind and honesty of flaws for forgiveness. We won’t like the same kinds of movies but I’ll still watch yours without you returning the favor since it’s the least I can do. You’ll try to get me to bond with your other friends and I will hold to the friendship hierarchy, never contacting them outside of your govern. They will be intimidated by my aloofness that they mistake for graceful detachment. You will have to learn to pardon on my behalf and see my begrudged manner as amusing. You will find comfort in our low-maintenance, spontaneous, frequent bursts then infrequent wanes of contact in our ebbing and flowing friendship.
If you do get Holden Caulfield, you still found him immature but probably felt that to be both disarming and alarming, and probably found statements for feelings you hadn’t thought about putting into words before. Beautiful things most likely make you sad, sad things to you are lovely, and love you find to be heavy.
You and I will be lovers. If you’re a woman, I will watch you from a distance intrigued and outraged, and seek you out in a crowd, scrutinizing and designing. I’ll be repulsed by your gall, envious of some faint essence of which I am unaware, and unimpressed by your affinities. I will pity you and your depth, aware of all you are. In fact, we will gravitate around each other’s awarenesses at the avoidant edge of our periphery, like a room with a wall of mirrors where we must actively try not to keep checking our own reflection.
If you are a man, I will charm you and subtly try to fix you. I’ll feign sunshine, until I become the perfect storm. You will always be wet, as it will always be raining or just have rained. You will live to see me come alive in the reprieves, and will be forever changed by knowing me. The heaviness is heady to you, intoxicated by the flickering, burning, illuminating as you never see me sleep. I will thirst for the calmness in you, and ache for the anchoring, smothering. I will start to miss you after I’ve told you everything.

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2 Responses to “it’s history. it’s poetry.”

  1. Read in the Peckham Rye, London.

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