Isn't it weird? This year is almost over, I have less than a month left to be eighteen, even though I'm still seventeen and mostly four and seven and sometimes forty. But this year, this strange, interesting, beautiful, bounteous, change-filled and growth-laden year, it's almost all over, vapor slipping through my fingers once again. The years are getting shorter, the ratio of year to years lived becoming more and more unequal.
Four years upon this blog, sculpted and shaped and forgotten and remembered...
Did you know that words don't stick? It seems like they used to, but now they often don't, and I can't figure out why. Perpetually perplexed, haha. (She smiles wryly) We'll pretend that we are perfectly comfortable in ourselves in this world, shoved against everything far too tightly. But there's space, right?
There's space inside. and sometimes, far too much space outside, a different angle on everything. Too many questions and not enough answers.
Re-pacing every fixed point in my past life, re-treading the old dirt paths of experience. Oh I am here again, and this is what I did then. This is now, here I am now, again (breath floating off into the spiral extended from heart). The ghosts of the past sliding by, more translucent every go around, but still there, ethereal as they are. Now is nothing but an old sheet thrown over an invisible shape, though. But whenever I say "so it is", never again will it be. That's why words won't stick; in their way, they are solid, implastic; strange as that sounds, but the way words are formed-- casting butterflies in concrete so that movement and flight crash dead to the ground.
To say that I am contradiction is to give out only a small amount of information, but if someone caught that and held it and looked at it long and hard, they would see the universe swirling in every hole, and they would, I think, understand at some point.
Woven tightly around self and time and every discovery in people and other nouns. Wound tightly and loosely around the years, even as they slip by, evading every grasp. Grasp loosely, I suppose, and they will comply, tattooing my skin and heart as they wave farewell from the edge of void and eternity.
Four years upon this blog, sculpted and shaped and forgotten and remembered...
Did you know that words don't stick? It seems like they used to, but now they often don't, and I can't figure out why. Perpetually perplexed, haha. (She smiles wryly) We'll pretend that we are perfectly comfortable in ourselves in this world, shoved against everything far too tightly. But there's space, right?
There's space inside. and sometimes, far too much space outside, a different angle on everything. Too many questions and not enough answers.
Re-pacing every fixed point in my past life, re-treading the old dirt paths of experience. Oh I am here again, and this is what I did then. This is now, here I am now, again (breath floating off into the spiral extended from heart). The ghosts of the past sliding by, more translucent every go around, but still there, ethereal as they are. Now is nothing but an old sheet thrown over an invisible shape, though. But whenever I say "so it is", never again will it be. That's why words won't stick; in their way, they are solid, implastic; strange as that sounds, but the way words are formed-- casting butterflies in concrete so that movement and flight crash dead to the ground.
To say that I am contradiction is to give out only a small amount of information, but if someone caught that and held it and looked at it long and hard, they would see the universe swirling in every hole, and they would, I think, understand at some point.
Woven tightly around self and time and every discovery in people and other nouns. Wound tightly and loosely around the years, even as they slip by, evading every grasp. Grasp loosely, I suppose, and they will comply, tattooing my skin and heart as they wave farewell from the edge of void and eternity.
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