Rooted, I used to think.

Profile - Archive- RSS
Notes - Email - Diaryland

Purgatory - Sunday, Feb. 10, 2019
Day Fifteen - Saturday, Feb. 09, 2019
Day Fourteen - Saturday, Feb. 09, 2019
Day Thirteen - Thursday, Feb. 07, 2019
Atonement - Thursday, Feb. 07, 2019

2002-04-20 @ 12:02 p.m.
Finger Painting

Words are my oil, my brush. The dashes and the dots of articulation are the strings of my guitar, or I suppose more truthfully, the keys of my flute. I'm filling my canvas daily. Pages and pages overflow from my shelves as my pens are being run dry. So much coming from my head, but so little of it is novel. It's just paintings with words. Some of them are childlike sketches with a single blue strip of sky on the top, and my suns are always painted yellow.

I flip the pages of my textbooks and phrases filter though my head. The text book information is flat, in black and white, in mono. And my mind is alive in stereo.

So enraptured in my mind that the phone rings and rings. Always no message. Attempting to describe the way my hands move, the way it feels to close your eyes into an expanse of nothing. Then the shock of the mirror that reminds you how you look: haunted.

If you close your eyes. If you take both of your hands and run them over your face with your eyes closed. It feels like you are perfect. It feels like someone you love is right there in front of you. It feels nothing like it looks in that warped window.

The overture continues. Knowing that the music will be lost in the euphony of this world. Wondering when something will appear on the page that has not been said before. He read through my piles once. He said he liked to see what was inside my head, that it made him love me more. And now I see that he was really just looking for evidence of trysts. As if there would be anyone else to be worried about - a four month obsession and still nothing more than a smile and a hello. "You write a lot about horses." It was highschool. I sure did.

There's the yellow sun gleeming through. So typical, so natural. It's easy to perfect that round sun, and forget about the horizon. That birds are more than clusters of simple black v's. The music quiets down in my head.

Roots | Shoots