This isn't about metaphors and similes. It isn't about assumptions or misconceptions (though there have been many of those). This is about trust. It is about evolution and regression. It is about human nature, and the fundamental basics of human nurture.
Why is it that we feel such an intrinsic need to violate the terms of our personal relationships?
Why do we never face the people we must with the facts? Why do we sensitize and detract to one person and embellish and vindicate to another?
Why do some of us choose to believe the worst in others, no matter how hard they might be trying to disprove us? And why do some of us refuse to see the malice in people no matter how present it might be?
These aren't just my questions, but I am asking them now. Why now...Why?
(A why? doesn't always illicit a because.)
I'm asking because certain realizations have plummeted these questions into the forefront of my thoughts, and I can't get away from them even when I try. I will wonder about these things forever. I wonder about them now.
I sat on a bronze lion today--at the foot of the monument in Montreal. If you have been to Montreal, you know what I am talking about. If not, think Trafalgar Square. If you haven't been to London--
why the fuck are you sitting at a computer reading this nonsensical discourse?
Go do something. Fuck off and do something.
The truth is...spiteful.
The truth is also, that the only people who can really hurt you are those you love (sic: and respect) most. And what does it mean when the hurt is inadvertent? If the hurt comes from a third party...if the person who curdles your skin with their words does so to another and it unintentionally comes your way? Is it worse? Because the things they say carry more truth? and weight? Is is better because you know at least that those things they say are their worst, because they never did say them to you?
Maybe I'm the marionette. Maybe my strings fall to the wayside, when nobody is watching. Maybe nobody knows, because they only see the chic-cherry smiles and the overdone eyes. Maybe I'm so good at faking it, I've forgotten what it feels like to be real.
I'm suffocating in a box. It's locked on all four sides--
as long as I'm in here, I'll never be happy--
as long as it's locked--
I'll never get out.
28.3.09
27.3.09
She reminds me of a marionette. Her strings are taut, she looks impenetrable. But when they loosen she falls apart into a hundred separate fragments--
confused.
When the world is around to pull her together, she is beautiful. When they turn their backs, she is a mess--
all string tangled with string and piece upon piece of contorted confusion. Her disparity is overwhelming, she knows she isn't perfection when she is simply herself. So each new day she tightens her strings to welcome the crowd from her throne. They beckon and wave and praise her shell--
the beauty she projects over them. And not one of them questions her. Nobody asks whether she is happy at night when the crowds have gone home. Not a single soul wants to know if she's anything more than that pretty face that smiles so selflessly down upon them.
She'd cry herself to sleep, but she doesn't see the point. The eyes have to open each morning and put on the same show, week upon week. Month upon month. She never falters, but holds her own, in the loneliest place she will ever know.
(to be continued...)
confused.
When the world is around to pull her together, she is beautiful. When they turn their backs, she is a mess--
all string tangled with string and piece upon piece of contorted confusion. Her disparity is overwhelming, she knows she isn't perfection when she is simply herself. So each new day she tightens her strings to welcome the crowd from her throne. They beckon and wave and praise her shell--
the beauty she projects over them. And not one of them questions her. Nobody asks whether she is happy at night when the crowds have gone home. Not a single soul wants to know if she's anything more than that pretty face that smiles so selflessly down upon them.
She'd cry herself to sleep, but she doesn't see the point. The eyes have to open each morning and put on the same show, week upon week. Month upon month. She never falters, but holds her own, in the loneliest place she will ever know.
(to be continued...)
10.3.09
Little paper shacks--
make up this world (of mine). They dot the horizon like pebbles on a beach--
somewhere far away--
from here.
Doesn't anyone live in them? Somebody wants to know...they're empty.
Vacant lots, as they swivel in the wind--doors open,
if you look closely enough.
But isn't that just
what we never do?
Glance as we pass
by the window-sill--
looking at the pretty things,
only.
Pretty things-
like love and flowers;
like laughter and snowflakes--
pure things. Simple things. Those that want naught but to give in, giving--
those that demand nothing,
but what they incur.
Falsify the obvious.
Pretty things aren't pretty when you look at them like we do:
love leaves one lost, and roses have thorns--
laughter covers the pain, as snowflakes dust over the rusty muddle of winter.
The underside of it all.
make up this world (of mine). They dot the horizon like pebbles on a beach--
somewhere far away--
from here.
Doesn't anyone live in them? Somebody wants to know...they're empty.
Vacant lots, as they swivel in the wind--doors open,
if you look closely enough.
But isn't that just
what we never do?
Glance as we pass
by the window-sill--
looking at the pretty things,
only.
Pretty things-
like love and flowers;
like laughter and snowflakes--
pure things. Simple things. Those that want naught but to give in, giving--
those that demand nothing,
but what they incur.
Falsify the obvious.
Pretty things aren't pretty when you look at them like we do:
love leaves one lost, and roses have thorns--
laughter covers the pain, as snowflakes dust over the rusty muddle of winter.
The underside of it all.
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