"There has to be pain. That’s the rule."
Haruki Murakami, Kafka On the Shore (via itsherfactory)
The day begins with a fog
that will not unroll. The weather
is falling everywhere, everywhere
we sit the grass bleeds to the touch.
What we have not yet said will not get said.
When you unzip your dress
a thousand insects run for cover,
the goldenrod breaks into a slow swoon.
Your touch is like the touch
of the wasp undulating in its nest,
your tongue the quick lash
of a mirror breaking on the wrist.
Everything else can wait, but will not.
"I hope you never think about anything as much as I think about you."
The sea isn’t even close.
I’ve learned that the face
is not enough. If you’re the quarry
where is the cart of extractions?
To gather like an invitation.
An arbalest zings though quarreling trees.
Wind like a treaty cannot wait.
Sometimes the war warbles:
I will send you lavender & antimatter.
I’m, like, achingly sad right now. Cry in the shower sober in the middle of the day sad. Feel like it will never get better sad. I feel like this pain has lived inside me my whole life, and, for the past few years, I’ve used distractions to push it away. Drugs, alcohol, dependency, vanity. Working in an industry that encourages all of these things certainly hasn’t helped.
I can’t push it away anymore. I need to embrace it I guess? Use it to better myself? I want to love myself finally. Maybe writing is just a start, but it feels like a good one.