“He had a word, too. Love, he called it. But I had been used to words for a long time. I knew that that word was like the others: just a shape to fill a lack; that when the right time came, you wouldn’t need a word for that anymore than for pride or fear.”

-As I Lay Dying


The idea that I am grappling with is this idea of love transposes itself to other people’s faces. And maybe the feeling shifts and changes or evolves. But is it really different with each different person? When you think you know, do you really know? Because feelings change. And the faces change. And you change. Do we simply fit each other into a mold? Long enough for flaws to be revealed and cracks to show? Long enough for things to crumble. And then we move on, or we don’t, but things change and the faces change. And you change. I can hear the clock on the wall ticking in my brain. I can hear your voice in my ears telling me to make up my mind. Waking up, every morning, with a new bird in my cage. A bitter light filtering through the curtains and into my head. It casts a eerie shadow on my heart. Tangled limbs and lips pressed together signify closeness and intimacy. But can that be transposed? So easily, from face to face. And dancing to a different rhythm isn’t really different at all, its just like the last. And when I’m alone, I’m not really alone at all. Because they’re all there. All the faces, they blend and mix together. Muddled and blurred. I remember the eyes. Brown puppy dog eyes, blood shot but sweet - asking eyes, pleading, sad eyes - your eyes, the ones I can’t let myself think about long enough to describe, can’t let them in - amber eyes, framed with light lashes - then yours, iridescent, [not insipid] piercing blue, mirroring mine. All fingerprints on my heart. Smudges, smears in my chest, through my veins. With each pair of eyes - who am I? A listless stoner, a moral ignorer, masochistic - a cheater, a liar - a naïve, whole-hearted lover - a surface dweller, a self ignored being - a passionate, creative being entwined in depth. Substitution. We perceive nothing, by knowing what it is always. Repeating patterns, face after face. Submerged self. Drowning self. I think I know what I want, but I’m not brave enough to obtain it. My life is a series of moments, happiness and pain, moments I let define me. Relying on others to keep me safe, sane, satisfied. When was a time when I could truly rely on myself? Such a simple question to ask, but my whole life has be a projection of self on others. Defined, dependent, demure. Is it easier being alone? With all the shadows of the old? It’s a long trip, with no new places. Empty echos that have been said into chasms, lies cut through flesh. My life is a series of moments. Some fleeting or prolonged; tortuous or pure bliss. Lingering, enveloped in a sheathe of protective memory, swirling in my effervescent brain until a circuitous and harrowing excavation. Forever stuck in time. Rapture of euphoria. The incomprehensible nature of life is completely illusive, and will forever puzzle me. I always know what I want, always quick to make decisions. But decisions like “will I buy this shirt” or “will I dye my hair this color” or “will I go out tonight”. This one’s not so easy. Even for decisive me. I can’t see the moon through the city haze. And the sun bakes the piss into the cement. Rum and cokes blur my rationale. Independence is relative. Hidden myself in disguise. Windows of temptation. Learning to be free. Temporary bliss. But this time, open your eyes and I won’t disappear.


“Is there no way out of the mind?”

-Sylvia Plath