Some of this will not make sense because it was written for, and references, my LiveJournal. Most of it will not make sense because I don't make sense. I watched Lost in Translation tonight. Now I'm untranslatable.
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The gates are open. Now I'm all unwords and insensibility, my head full of hollow. I cried a lot tonight. I didn't know why. Scenes in the movie that weren't supposed to make me, I don't think--I didn't cry where I should. Usually I do. Lately. I cried when I couldn't describe. Down, down, down I went, all the way in, struck to the quintessence of whatever it is that I am, thinking strange thoughts like Please do not let me die this slow death they are telling me I'll die if I'm not careful. Please don't let me be that woman, his wife, don't be empty and hard and joyless.
Where is he? Where are you? It's so hard to love you when I can't see your face, when I don't know your name. I need someone to whisper words that only I will hear, and the whole audience on the edge of their seats straining to snatch the tiniest fragment of whatever sacred truth you and I will know together. You will make me famous-- we'll make the world bend to hear us, their breaths held in painful suspension, and I'll put it in my books, and I will dedicate them all to you, even the ones that have someone else's names inside. I've already dedicated them to you. I have written you plays and sonnets and arias; the theme of your life is surging in my ears and I don't know your name.
Usually I would censor this, would contain it to my friends-lock-lock-lock, and maybe some of them would read it but probably most of them would not, and I don't blame them because two years ago I wouldn't have read it, either. But I want to pour myself out, splash on the pavement in silver-slick runnels of liquid pathos. Read it or reject it, I don't care. I just don't want to die. No quiero morir. Quiero vivir. Quiero amor. Quiero querer. Pathotic, pathetic, in two languages. I don't want to die.
I don't even really want to sleep.
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The gates are open. Now I'm all unwords and insensibility, my head full of hollow. I cried a lot tonight. I didn't know why. Scenes in the movie that weren't supposed to make me, I don't think--I didn't cry where I should. Usually I do. Lately. I cried when I couldn't describe. Down, down, down I went, all the way in, struck to the quintessence of whatever it is that I am, thinking strange thoughts like Please do not let me die this slow death they are telling me I'll die if I'm not careful. Please don't let me be that woman, his wife, don't be empty and hard and joyless.
Where is he? Where are you? It's so hard to love you when I can't see your face, when I don't know your name. I need someone to whisper words that only I will hear, and the whole audience on the edge of their seats straining to snatch the tiniest fragment of whatever sacred truth you and I will know together. You will make me famous-- we'll make the world bend to hear us, their breaths held in painful suspension, and I'll put it in my books, and I will dedicate them all to you, even the ones that have someone else's names inside. I've already dedicated them to you. I have written you plays and sonnets and arias; the theme of your life is surging in my ears and I don't know your name.
Usually I would censor this, would contain it to my friends-lock-lock-lock, and maybe some of them would read it but probably most of them would not, and I don't blame them because two years ago I wouldn't have read it, either. But I want to pour myself out, splash on the pavement in silver-slick runnels of liquid pathos. Read it or reject it, I don't care. I just don't want to die. No quiero morir. Quiero vivir. Quiero amor. Quiero querer. Pathotic, pathetic, in two languages. I don't want to die.
I don't even really want to sleep.
escottie:
not lost in translation. instead, understandable in any language. the language of the heart, a lament i sing oft times, too.
wastedyears:
haha, I knew if anyone on here would like my last entry it would be you! now, don't go getting too harsh