So what, who, were we, are we to each other?

Doors open to other realms (but how long can you stay within open doors)? We felt each other right away, like animals smelling their own kind. But what of it? is it enough?

Old issues are just covers - both in musical and metaphorical sense. They're covers of old happenings which will or won't happen again, no one can tell; they cover up the fact that until we move on with our individual lives, we don't have much to say to each other. We each have a desperation, but those desperate needs don't quite match now. They may match later, when we work ourselves out.

It's time for me to pick myself up by the scruff of my neck. I will look. I will search. I will consider. I will find. I will find my way out, and I hope he will, too.

Something has broken, and I can't tell if it's for better or worse, an ending, a beginning, both. I am here, right here and now, and I need to live in it. Again, after September, comes the "shelving" time; after we're both done, we can, perhaps - reconverge...

I'm not saying it's easy on me. Not at all. But it's simple. No sacrifice, we had said, and early on, too. Not even subconscious version of sacrifice. Because if there was sacrifice, not only we wouldn't forgive each other: we wouldn't have forgiven ourselves.

fast or slow?

Do we go fast or slow?

I still remember missing each other so badly for an evening or two - the impossible separation, the dragging of hours, the weary and excited wait for him to show up at my door.

I dislike remembering the desperation tinged efforts of my thesis-writing. That was a special time, during which missing each other was relegated to backburner, out of necessity. No that it was any less desperate.

Now we are just weary and desensitized. Nevertheless. It's like a steady drain on the system. And even if the excitement of seeing him will wear off with time, I'm very ready to just, be around each other. This is too impossible. Seems just impossible to take it.

And I prohibit wanting. It takes energy to want and not receive.

He always disconnected at the most inopportune time. Just enough to foster - something, and leave it. To fester.


He might be having dinner. Or working. Maybe he's on the phone. How about shopping? having a drink with friends? who knew.

She only knew she didn't know what he was thinking. And there was stuff for him to think about.

She only knew she did the best she knew.

And fuck the drama anyway :p

of time wasted

It's interesting. The more time I waste, the less time I waste.

Let me rephrase.

Once again - like a student, needing Remedial Rita lessons - I closed myself in my house to work. Instead, I found myself watching House M.D. rather a lot.

Today I went to the park and sunned myself on a bench. I've just finished breakfast (scrambled eggs, fresh basil, onions, cheese, buns) and have coffee waiting. And I find myself reflecting, that 'wasting time' in the park is muchly preferred to 'not wasting' it - or wasting away - inside.

Living without [fresh] air - apparently unacceptable.

You don't want to lose me, and I'm losing myself.

Don't know what to trust, what to do. You change every which way - I never know if what you're saying is true or 'you're fine' cause you wish to protect me from something. I resent needing protection - can't handle anything - can't tangle this out. The only thing I know clearly is needing a break to do the important stuff. Everything'll get easier after that.

I'm losing myself. Am I strong? addicted? wanting truth? demanding? being childish and immature? asking too much, asking too little? Don't know, and rather can't afford to care.

I'm busy.

poetry recs

I'm reposting stuff to poetssociety on livejournal (http://poetssociety.livejournal.com/) and there are two v. cool poems there. check these out, people!

http://poetssociety.livejournal.com/7086019.html

http://poetssociety.livejournal.com/7083938.html

[here endeth the metanote]

PS incredible, how many bad depressed poetry is out there. i can't read beyond spelling mistakes, and i'm reading anyway because i feel a bit guilty because I do what 90% of posters there - that is, pop in, post my stuff, and don't read anybody else's :P

doors

Awfully wishful, but then -- all the same
I shall find joy in opening of doors.
I cannot walk through all of them, of course --
don't know my choice yet, my path has no name.

But first, there are matters that come to a close
twighlit, long-shadowed, licked by touch of flame
with some head-shaking, critical acclaim
I shall of those things gracefully dispose.

Oh! she exclaimed, as dreamy as rose
in-between pages of long-loved book; stain
having kept fragrance, caressing the nose

She shall be happy with it, I suppose,
with rare-ocurring bouts of teary rain
-- worn metaphors -- comfort that she chose.