March 16, 2005

just passin' through...

for the love of GOD it's late. just so you know, the reason i'm still awake (not that it really helps) is that i got up REALLY FREAKING EARLY this morning to meet up with my high school english teacher. it was great. more later, when it's not 5 am. maybe. heh.

anyway, another private entry HERE.

You wonder if
the fears,
the doubts,
the worries,
if they're grounded,
if they're reasonable, and
if you'll ever
outgrow them.
If one day you'll
just plough through the
walls you've constructed;
a small
city of walls
you've built
over the years,
the more time that passes,
the more resistance it takes
to crack away at those walls,
the less likely
your city is to suffer
(would suffer be the word?)
a security breach.

you wonder these things,
and you wonder.
it's the
not knowing,
i think.
why is it
so hard to
move forward
without living
out the next five years
in your mind like
live programming,
an in-of-body
experience, like
a dream from which
you're willing yourself
to wake up. like a
video game where
each game played has a
different, ridiculous
outcome, like a
large green rodent
wreaking havoc
on your rose bushes
or a
detached hand
reaching out for yours,
or perhaps the
former wife
returning for what is
rightfully hers. but no.

he's
rightfully yours at
this point in the dream, and
you want to curl up and
scream, and do you
wish you'd
never gotten
to this point
of caring, or
is the agony
worth it all?

they say it is.
whoever "they" is,
they say
all sorts of things,
things we swallow
from forever ago
without even noticing
they've entered
our bloodstreams,
sugared us up
with hope,
that glimmer of
hope that never
ceases to jump start,
recharge, ignite
the depths of us
that have long ago
withdrawn defeatedly.
and so?
what, then?

the cliches,
the banality,
the proverbs,
the adages,
they're all recycled,
reused,
passed on,
through
our mouths,
through
our devices of media,
(those hideous things) and
more and more
little girls like me
will grow into
little women like me,
knowing deep down that
perfect, true romance is
only a
lovely picture of
fiction,
but
somehow unable to
shake that hope
off our
foolish little hearts.

blueavenue at 5:11 a.m.

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