February 6, 2012 § 1 Comment

This was just written very quickly out of a need to make sense of things and end the day! I don’t feel totally satisfied so there will probably be more pieces like this soon written somewhat differently. Comments/thoughts/reactions always appreciated!



It’s in the dusty smell of books (little girl), the warm whisper of fall (nothingness), the shape of her face (when I was nothingness).

The way her eyes become glassy orbs (when I was nothingness) and the way his hand brushes mine (when I did not belong to Me).

Suddenly, suddenly, I am not walking down the street and looking into the faces of people I will never Know. Suddenly, suddenly I am not going anywhere, the destination wiped off the map, present and future melting away. Like a storm washes away a child’s chalk drawing, now, right now, now, blurs and swirs and the colors are running together and all that made sense is no longer even anything at all, a forgotten memory, a chalk drawing. I’m lost inside a painting and I’m at the mercy of the man holding the brush. It’s like I’m on a roller coaster and the roller coaster is fucking Starry Night and someone let Van Gogh drive, even though everyone knows he’s had a couple.

And the man holding the brush is painting so fast it’s making me sick and I want to grab on to something tightly, something to hold me up before the hairs of his brush can sweep me up, up and away to the drawing of Yesterday. Is he painting backwards, back through the days? Maybe. Or does he remember Yesterday, remember it so well that his brush knows every angle, every corner of the canvas, down to the smudges and dried bubbles of paint? Today, I say to the man. Today, now, Me. But I don’t say anything at all, really, because the man has already decided I will not have a voice, because today is Yesterday. And I do not have a voice.

The colors are reforming, the new, or old, painting is Here but the trick is I am not. I cry and scream and rip at my world, scratching at Beauty and tearing at Terror. I am a whimpering child, all, all, alone, and I’m staring into the faces of people who will never Know This. I tell myself Yesterday is not Today, that I am holding the brush, that I am the man. But the man is clever, a talented artist, a voice of his generation. There are thoughts now, thoughts of Yesterday is All and the rest is an illusion, a forgotten memory, as simple and as short-lived as a chalk drawing.

And Yesterday happened because of the warm whisper of fall. The shape of her face.

I breathe.

Colors sucked in.

Colors breathed out.



I am holding a brush. I think. It is hard to be sure. I cannot see it, but I think I feel it in my fingers, feel the weight, the tingling energy. I grip tighter. I am holding a brush. I am not holding a brush.





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