Danger. To not see it at first glance is the first grave, ensnaring step; to ignore the warning and keep on walking is entwining inextricably with peril. The fact that you know such men exist is no guarantee of avoiding the trap, of treading beneath the umbrella of safety. The biggest treachery lies in being self-assured that you will not become his prey.
I have entered the dungeon, where no walls are real, where the only certainties are lies. In the darkness I grope, my eyes closed and blinded with the wonderful promises of the possibilities he can weave, extracting hope, feeding desires. I grip his hand, happily indulging in the illusions, when all the while I am stumbling within his crooked hallways, unperceptive of the bruises on knees and elbows, unaware of the indescribable muck gummed to my ankles.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
A lot has happened in such a short span of time and
I am still unable to sit these thoughts gathered around my table in their proper order. There are people who I need to see clearest in my head, yet seem to cloak themselves in a foggy blur, or I am trying to look over a tall, broad shoulder behind which is...Him, the looming grayness of cold, wet, ambiguous temperament, is the least who needs the glimmer of words that I can’t find beneath the dust, pile of dirty clothes, and slapdash clutter of my disorganized existence. His head is turned away, but I am sure his visible ear is not ready for an earplug of my sound.
These days, I am mostly shuffling from one point to the next, no time to slow down, too hurried to get in a decent thought. The flurry of my today life is probably one bad decision to the next – we will not know soon enough. I am at the mercy of my pretty active limbic, and my body hesitantly follows too late for my brain’s slow-to-form protests.
Some mornings, I wake up to feel my nakedness, and it’s alright, even if a red towel is insufficient to ward off the morning and other shivers. It’s alright, and yet the descent of heavy reality makes me long for the solitude wherein which I can always trust myself to deal with it better, much better than when a dark body lies so closely beside and beneath, breathing hugely slowly through lips that, when they find their aim, the swiftness electrifies to the hair.
These days, I am mostly shuffling from one point to the next, no time to slow down, too hurried to get in a decent thought. The flurry of my today life is probably one bad decision to the next – we will not know soon enough. I am at the mercy of my pretty active limbic, and my body hesitantly follows too late for my brain’s slow-to-form protests.
Some mornings, I wake up to feel my nakedness, and it’s alright, even if a red towel is insufficient to ward off the morning and other shivers. It’s alright, and yet the descent of heavy reality makes me long for the solitude wherein which I can always trust myself to deal with it better, much better than when a dark body lies so closely beside and beneath, breathing hugely slowly through lips that, when they find their aim, the swiftness electrifies to the hair.
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