close yourself in.
4/26/11 11:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alasanonAll I have right now are scattered words. They won't come together to make anything, so I'm sitting here, all of them on scraps of paper, glass, metal, wood, around my feet, trying to make sense out of them. I can't. I can't.
I'm trying.
I move them around, slice my finger on one, too sharp for my tastes, lick the blood from the wound. I'm just repeating myself, one whisper echoing, somehow.
A sentence forms, "See how they run." but it's only a fragment of a popular song. I strike it from my vocabulary, throwing "see" across the room, putting "they" into my mouth and chewing it all up.
Only pulp.
It is only pulp.
I grow tired, faint with hunger or loneliness or a dim sense of fearful worry. It's important, I must make this into something meaningful. It is my duty, and I must not fail.
Rearrange again, pick up "silence", examine the thin porcelain plate on which it is written, so light, nearly translucent with intent. I use that word too often, and it has faded, the blue ink scratched and worn. Put it down, gently now, careful not to break it.
"Bird" is painted on a feather, "ocean" on a bit of metal beaten to the shape of a wave.
Nothing makes any sense, though. They're just fragments, and I am losing my shape.
I'm trying.
I move them around, slice my finger on one, too sharp for my tastes, lick the blood from the wound. I'm just repeating myself, one whisper echoing, somehow.
A sentence forms, "See how they run." but it's only a fragment of a popular song. I strike it from my vocabulary, throwing "see" across the room, putting "they" into my mouth and chewing it all up.
Only pulp.
It is only pulp.
I grow tired, faint with hunger or loneliness or a dim sense of fearful worry. It's important, I must make this into something meaningful. It is my duty, and I must not fail.
Rearrange again, pick up "silence", examine the thin porcelain plate on which it is written, so light, nearly translucent with intent. I use that word too often, and it has faded, the blue ink scratched and worn. Put it down, gently now, careful not to break it.
"Bird" is painted on a feather, "ocean" on a bit of metal beaten to the shape of a wave.
Nothing makes any sense, though. They're just fragments, and I am losing my shape.
