The tides tear
apart, tongues are cut off, or maybe, just maybe, words are unwritten.
If it wasn’t for
the blue lightning, the yellow sky, and my conviction, I could have gone far. I
could have jumped cities and said no to Time. They say only cities can be said
yes or no to, and Time is our master and History not our friend. But nostalgia,
an easy disguise, is what gets us going, what gets us forgetting, what gets us
willing to crave day after day, as an interrupted dream that there’s no going
back to.
Fear is desire.
He desires fear. He fears desire. Desire isn’t and fear isn’t. Our favourite
fictions with no need to be printed. That would be too much to handle. Like a thousand
five hundred page book, hardcover at that, a mammoth smack to the hand’s body
and the eye’s memory.
It starts
raining pages and I close the windows to the remorse. No one will read them
anyway. People will miss paper airplanes. People will miss their laptops,
cellphones, digital stalkers. They’ll miss them so bad that they’ll say that
times aren’t actually getting better, quoting the paper plane man in the subway
who they never actually listened to.
Beauty brushes
itself into our pictures, the ones we take, keep, draw, recall. But beauty is a
stranger due to all the pressure.
Your half life
tells you that the day won’t wait.
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