The Deceiver: A Vignette
Another year slips away. It sneaks out of my bed and into the night, shoes in hand, like a one-night stand. It wasn't a particularly good year, so I don't know if I should be forlorn about the impermanence of our relationship. In a lot of ways it seems logical that I would spend the last few days of the year with a cold, maybe the flu, maybe both?
It's been a year of loss. For a lot of people. In a lot of ways. For the country.
There have been some gains- notably for the long-silenced victims of sexual abuse. Every step seems to fall a little short of getting there though.
I'm hoping to make this next year one of more positive change.
I've been considering writing poetry, because I think my thoughts are unnecessarily floral, but succinct. My goal, however, is to start writing complete stories. Short ones, then drawing them out further and further, until I disappear into a story that seems to have no ending. Like a George R.R. Martin series.
I've been obsessing about a few things. Some, probably within my control to explore- like the formation of words. Not really etymology. At least not in the way that I understand it now. I sometimes find myself coming slightly untied from reality when I consider that I don't see the logic in sounds or numbers. When I focus on the duality of something or nothing, a line or a curve. I stare a little too intently directly into the headlights of the car across from me at a stop-light till my vision blurs and explodes with blotches of white and neon blue. Every moment wondering why I'm so drawn to things people probably fall into when on far more drugs than I am typically on. Nothing about these moments feel original or smart. I can't help but thinking something is wrong with me for being so indulgent. Then I think something is wrong with everyone else for enabling me thus far. Someone might have said by now that I'm really just not as clever as I think I am, acknowledging that I don't honestly feel that clever, the bar is lower than I even dare to speculate.
On the other end there are lost moments. You were the soundtrack to my formative years. Memories of you flood my senses like nothing else. With everything else having twisted I wonder sometimes if it wasn't all some sick joke. There were several tracks of sick jokes and dumb ones that were sampled along the way. I think that even if I could reach out, even if there was trust before, our abilities grow and die with us. Even if my love and affection for you throws me back into the reckless, inspired, angst of a teenager, my faith is not static.
It's been a year of loss. For a lot of people. In a lot of ways. For the country.
There have been some gains- notably for the long-silenced victims of sexual abuse. Every step seems to fall a little short of getting there though.
I'm hoping to make this next year one of more positive change.
I've been considering writing poetry, because I think my thoughts are unnecessarily floral, but succinct. My goal, however, is to start writing complete stories. Short ones, then drawing them out further and further, until I disappear into a story that seems to have no ending. Like a George R.R. Martin series.
I've been obsessing about a few things. Some, probably within my control to explore- like the formation of words. Not really etymology. At least not in the way that I understand it now. I sometimes find myself coming slightly untied from reality when I consider that I don't see the logic in sounds or numbers. When I focus on the duality of something or nothing, a line or a curve. I stare a little too intently directly into the headlights of the car across from me at a stop-light till my vision blurs and explodes with blotches of white and neon blue. Every moment wondering why I'm so drawn to things people probably fall into when on far more drugs than I am typically on. Nothing about these moments feel original or smart. I can't help but thinking something is wrong with me for being so indulgent. Then I think something is wrong with everyone else for enabling me thus far. Someone might have said by now that I'm really just not as clever as I think I am, acknowledging that I don't honestly feel that clever, the bar is lower than I even dare to speculate.
On the other end there are lost moments. You were the soundtrack to my formative years. Memories of you flood my senses like nothing else. With everything else having twisted I wonder sometimes if it wasn't all some sick joke. There were several tracks of sick jokes and dumb ones that were sampled along the way. I think that even if I could reach out, even if there was trust before, our abilities grow and die with us. Even if my love and affection for you throws me back into the reckless, inspired, angst of a teenager, my faith is not static.
Comments
Post a Comment