Samstag, August 16, 2008
written in the future tense:
for liyan
The rain today was nothing but a humid idea that swam amongst our feet: warm and mysterious, profound and unwanting. We have believed all there is to believe, invoked everything there was to invoke, became broken for all that was broken. Then at night, the moon seemed closer to us, but kept its own usual grey idea: because some things don't change. here we are now, our hearts quiet and learning; our hopes drawn and redrawn, sketched and resketched; and still i do not know what it is about the rain that makes me want to write and dream and hope and love.
<3
charlyn
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Samstag, August 09, 2008
prose
today my nephew tumbled up into my lap, reached up to touch my cheek and told me (in his own genuine way), that he missed and loved me. suddenly everything i've been feeling for the past few weeks caught up to me, and it felt .. alright.
i've missed you too, i said.
strangely enough, it felt like my words were meant for something larger and unknown, something worn out and out worn, something tired .. like the old smell of rain.
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Freitag, Juni 06, 2008
part of myself, unwritten
I feel like I am losing myself; or perhaps it is no one else has found me. My words have forgotten how to be delicate and fragile and vulnerable; even when they do, it is just for a moment, and they spend more time in my head than they do on paper. No, I have not found what the rain is like, nor the texture of dreams against my bare skin (or the colour of your kiss) : too many things have been left unwritten.
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Montag, Juni 02, 2008
12:48am
Good things are happening, and if anything; they must be kept away from you. Above all else, I am terrified of our worlds meeting: first a delicate glance, a warm touch, an inadvertent kiss; then the grazing of cold raw skin, ruin - You are impatient for it. They will be kept away from your sharp hands; anxious to tear apart every piece of clothing skin muscle heart aspiration emotion.
As for now, it is 12:48am in my world; and today I will find myself in the sun and in your arms, and write about dreams as you tickle me with your kisses.
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Donnerstag, Mai 29, 2008
circus
Tomorrow, it has been told to me, a good thing happens. And strangely enough, the dream has become overworn, washed out, dried up, dusted down and torn apart. I want to say to them, I am sorry, but I cannot, I cannot be a part of this. If what is written is emotion, then it is precisely this emotion that must be breathed, that must be carressed, that must be whispered, that must be read - that must be read only in the quiet of rain, with the quiet of mind, by the quietest of hearts. If emotion speaks to emotion in a language so raw, so profound, so impenetrable and yet is still able to move us; then we are only hands, severed hands grasping pens, translating the unwritten on bloodied pages. Emotion to emotion, understand: I am not part of this. The thought depresses me: that this is the fate our words must meet - to be read aloud, to be taught to pose in the spotlight. Or maybe its just hormones and nerves.
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Dienstag, Mai 20, 2008
privation
There are shadows everywhere, and the lights are hard to switch on. Even when they finally find themselves, they restrain themselves from screaming relief. If vertigo is the overwhelming panic when you look down, then the looking up must just be overwhelming alone.
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Freitag, Mai 02, 2008
concrete
Recently I've discovered that I've been able to think parallel thoughts simultaneously; it's very very strange, and yet I like to think my newfound skill is comparable to Affleck's uncanny ability to pretend to be blind (it really is terribly difficult). Notably it is a skill that needs some polishing, for occasionally my thoughts get crossed with each other and I run out of words. It's strange, this running out of words. What's stranger is the words we have - we say things we don't mean and mean things we don't say; and then we make promises and swear our love upon the basis of these very words again - these words that appear and vanish and reappear and disappear in the wind of our thoughts. We stand on very shaky ground, and ironically this is the very thing that we constantly use to ground ourselves. If today, I were to say: a rose is a rose is a rose; would it still smell sweeter than any other name as it did in Stein's time? In a minute, I will shut my eyes and deny every single adjective qualifier quantifier; and words would mean what they mean - and yet I am reluctant to: in fear of denying everything else that is beautifully convoluted in this language. In a minute. Right now, I'll be content to just shut my eyes and know that I have you.
What if you're making me all that I was meant to be?
(:
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