Thursday, March 26, 2009

interlogue: what is

sometimes when it's late at night and the room is silent and you're all alone, you wonder how it can still sting so harshly. if you should be allowed to feel it resonate still. still when it surrounds you. maybe repression begets obsession. when it comes, it comes in droves. you think of all the things you want. you want so little. and you wonder if you can get through this. if you can get to them. it's hard. and hardest because no one told you it wasn't going to be, because no one says it still won't; but because you continue to refuse to let yourself accept how hard it is. to allow yourself your grief. you're a hard person. time has made you stoic. time has made you still. still you ache to just break down. just once. into arms. but you don't know how to ask. you don't know how to tear the veneer. how to just be. even when you write about it, you write it as though it's someone else. as though it wasn't you. you write it as distance, as distant; an insistent nag. but it's not. this is you.
this is me. this is me. it's me.