the blinds have been shut. light leaks through.
��������� �����we don't belong here, corey said. you, me, jos ... there are THINGS happening, such things ...the house is dormant. somewhere upstairs, american idol is on the television, blaring out glitz & glamour. the folks went out to a uconn basketball game. the house is dormant. my thoughts are not.
it was sushi today in the dying light of manchester.
i've stepped over one too many lines, perhaps, and this is why the coldness, the vague affability. (we don't belong here, none of us .. ) so much upheaval in the springtime, the ground giving way to green, the white turning to brown turning to wet, the trees shuddering into explosions of green - nature takes its course, we take ours alongside, following parallel like a highway. it is going the correct direction, and we are over the median vainly struggling against traffic to follow it.
we don't belong here. today in iraq, there was a sandstorm. or maybe it was yesterday. the forces at nasiriyah were strong-willed. the moon outside ladles into the star-soup, devours a few. it sounds like a bomb exploding when i slap my alarm off. but the only reason it does is because of the war. i am possessed of an odd urging lately, an upswell of hatred for implacability, for a passing glance and a "remember-when-?" nostalgia can have its grave. it dies for a reason.
kaylen. always some sort of hope.
i am frustrated. i will return from this place that i proclaim so loudly is annoying, and i will continue to reinvent myself as i see fit, back and forth and back again - i will return to maine, sit down at the computer, and whittle away my life by the glow of the minotaur. monitor. i am perseus (theseus?) seeking into the labyrinth with a ball of magical electronic data-strings seeking the Elusive, the Eleusinian Mystery -
and all of this is extremely pretentious. i'm waiting for the phone to ring, for an IM to pop up, for the sound of the wind outside to convey threat. nothing ever happens, godot never shows up, and i remain in limb-taxing stagnation (of my own design?)
in one day i will be twenty. a round, even number, divisible into many parts, sliced and falling as evenly as a tomato or a cored apple.