Thu, 19 May 2005

cut away the form until the essence remains
unless you are an absence, in which case you can only be seen in the frame which defines you, the walls cradling the empty space where you sit and stare like a camera that doesn’t record, doesn’t send out a signal, only pans slowly back and forth, a silent witness without memory or judgment, before which my selfishness and loneliness looks entirely unremarkable, similar in its every attribute to the thousands of other people who pass by this same spot every single day, so that I almost think to myself that by sharing these similarities that I am in fact not alone, that I am a part of a thing beyond the end of my skin and breath and sight, that there is a silver thread run through a small hole in my forehead which stretches and knots among all the people around me, but a web of loneliness cannot by definition nourish or warm, just confirm what is obvious, and as I scurry away and try to think about trivia from movies I saw as a child, or the lyrics to some half-dreamt pop song, or some fuzzy future when I am with the person I’m secretly (not so secretly) sweet on, or someone resembling her, or anyone at all, as I panic-rush for a distraction I know I will not find soon enough, as tonight in my bed just before I sleep all the things I saw in that absence will be there, staring at me, waiting.
(12:12.05.19.2005) [/ana] #