under the bridge, the air is cool and candlelight makes this night feel like Christmas. layers of thin clothing piled up on top of each other, flannel over cotton short sleeves under black jackets keep the anarchists warm as all kinds of melody's tune in and out of the night. most of the songs are about sunrises, new possiblitys and love. some of them are about being free or trapped or alone. all of them are about horizons, the orgastic future, and hope.
its possible that I was born with a much more intense sense of time than others. when you say a week, a month, I feel the pressing weight of those minutes and hours and days pushing down upon my lungs, threatening to destroy me if I don't get out, fast and keep getting out fast until the end of time. and maybe its true, that my time is less than that of others, and knowing that I value every moment more. that I don't see myself in forty years leisurely homesteading with children growing older. all I see is the intensity of this day and the few that I hope follow. all I feel is the the intensity of the moments that I am experiencing as I experience them. and yes, I have no patience, because for every day that passes I feel the intensity of everything that has been passed on into history, and every tight pull upward of potential that comes in the future. and in waiting for you I find myself dislocated pulled apart from everything that I identify as myself it hurts and I wont last like this
Then why do yo have so much silly stuff? And why do you treat it like water in the desert. Like food on the moon. Like you last piece of hope. Like stuff is equal to survival?
I hope your happy. When the world ends in a hand full of bullets, so you say. Because you never learned how to farm. Or hunt. Even though it was all you ever needed. And all you have all of that useless stuff.
Lost city, agricultural wasteland, industry boom, in the wake of civilization. Whats left of this city isn't much. Old ideas and expectations that were never quite met by the people who once lived here. Now I see abandoned buildings, scattered cars and faded colors. Change is in the air, moving slowly, taking fresno by night. tomorrow I see cracked pavement, overgrown parking lots and crumbling buildings.
If I traced a line, from myself in this room in this very moment, to myself in this room one year ago, what exactly would it look like? Two individuals separated by a year of constant change. Both going to California, both looking for answers in a place where answers are never found.
Is that line straight? Or curved? Is that line a circle, a sphere, a spiral? Is it broken, jagged? Does it cross back over itself?
It worries me. Not that I don't trust that the line is whatever shape I make it. I know it's whatever shape I make it. The problem is that I would rather make something interesting over something functional. So I know that the path that was forged between time has been interesting, but does it function, will it work?
will never confess that she is still a child who was raised by children with illusions of happiness
I find myself falling through the cracks left by my parents, that were left by their parents and now have grown to big to be ignored. I find that falling feels like two cars crashing into one another, like desperation like fear like ice knifes slicing lines into the lining of the stomach. Chewing on tinfoil.
When did I loose the line between lost and found?
How could I have not understood how importantly fine that separation was?
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