"Just imagine living life without a dagger in your heart" She said that to me once, my little Anais.
I think about that... her, from time to time, how I could walk a little freer without those damn memories without the insecurities and disappointments and without that singular purpose of finding the next girl, woman, thing, to twist it. Yes, but I'd miss the dagger, we all would, well those of us who've lived enough to recognize the bloody shaft of steel protruding from our collective chest cavity. It's somehow less a deterrent to moving on, than it is motivation. A sharp piercing pain in the chest that screams "move forward now, on to the next one, or we die!"...
Yeah I'd miss the dagger.
And her, I sit at cafs and in train stations, on boardwalks, at the market, always in transition or repose, and think of her. The conversations for sure, she has a sparkling manor that makes me feel a curious and excited student of the world when she's near. The laughter is a favorite of mine as well, her wit is quite a bit sharper than you'd think a thing of beauty's should be. But that's not where my mind goes off to, that's a bit of fluff and sunshine to a man that craves a bit darker fare. Everyone gets the laughter, the intellectual end. We can all laugh in a room filled with Doctors and Madmen, children, and professors. But when I think of her in those stolen quiet moments, I think of what she might say were we in the dark, in an alley, a quiet theater, a crowded dance floor where the music and lemmings spinning around us, hide us in a veil of overpopulation. What she might say then with her eyes, her hands, oh those hands, her young unspoiled flesh. What might we talk about then without words.
Then I hear the train whistle and the conductor calling for the last stop, or the the caf waitress asking me if i'd like a bit more coffee before she brings my check and I'm back again in the work a day world, thinking about taxes, bills and the next freelance gig I get to sell my soul for, all the while looking forward to that next stolen moment, that next bit of dark fare where my mind can wander off and find her sleeping beneath a tree in a glade. I'll not wake her but lay beside her and join her at rest. But for now I have debts to manage and creditors who would never understand the great importance of this solitary endeavor.
I think about that... her, from time to time, how I could walk a little freer without those damn memories without the insecurities and disappointments and without that singular purpose of finding the next girl, woman, thing, to twist it. Yes, but I'd miss the dagger, we all would, well those of us who've lived enough to recognize the bloody shaft of steel protruding from our collective chest cavity. It's somehow less a deterrent to moving on, than it is motivation. A sharp piercing pain in the chest that screams "move forward now, on to the next one, or we die!"...
Yeah I'd miss the dagger.
And her, I sit at cafs and in train stations, on boardwalks, at the market, always in transition or repose, and think of her. The conversations for sure, she has a sparkling manor that makes me feel a curious and excited student of the world when she's near. The laughter is a favorite of mine as well, her wit is quite a bit sharper than you'd think a thing of beauty's should be. But that's not where my mind goes off to, that's a bit of fluff and sunshine to a man that craves a bit darker fare. Everyone gets the laughter, the intellectual end. We can all laugh in a room filled with Doctors and Madmen, children, and professors. But when I think of her in those stolen quiet moments, I think of what she might say were we in the dark, in an alley, a quiet theater, a crowded dance floor where the music and lemmings spinning around us, hide us in a veil of overpopulation. What she might say then with her eyes, her hands, oh those hands, her young unspoiled flesh. What might we talk about then without words.
Then I hear the train whistle and the conductor calling for the last stop, or the the caf waitress asking me if i'd like a bit more coffee before she brings my check and I'm back again in the work a day world, thinking about taxes, bills and the next freelance gig I get to sell my soul for, all the while looking forward to that next stolen moment, that next bit of dark fare where my mind can wander off and find her sleeping beneath a tree in a glade. I'll not wake her but lay beside her and join her at rest. But for now I have debts to manage and creditors who would never understand the great importance of this solitary endeavor.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
I'm an emotional one this week.
x
not certain.
probably more a self interpretation.
sounds like beautiful pain.