Still Life: An Empty Vessel
Dear Girl,
I remember the first night it happened, you got pretty mad. You had your earphones jammed in, listening to Twist and Shout so loud that it hurt - anything to block out the noise of being taken forgranted. Like a man obsessed, you did everything you could to ignore the people around you, creating twisted, macabre little pieces of art that made you seem more dark and demented than you really are.
The next night it happened, and the next, you pretended nothing was wrong though you were so incensed that it was watching the world pass through a haze of red heat. You may even have cried though mainly, you were just feeling angry and more than a little murderous. The rage was like a huge stone pressing down over your heart and mouth, blocking the words and forcing them out as tears.
Well, the last night it happened, you got really fucking pissed off. And still, you followed the sun to ground like a wandering cowboy watching the shadows grow longer and finally pall in the face of night. We had a long talk past midnight you and I, and I thought maybe we'd reached a consensus though looking back now, I'm not surprised I was wrong. Morning broke, and you went back on your word. I can't say I was mad - I'm not really responsible for what you do half the time and frankly, it's not like I'm in charge of the clean up either. You can jump through all the hoops you want and I'll always be here, waiting patiently for you to regain your senses, or not. It's no skin off my back - metaphorically speaking, you understand.
As long as you're sentient though, I want to point out one thing.
You may be quirky, but we both know you're also really quite sane. People may laugh, but it's not like you don't know how to make them take you seriously either. You're far less emotional than you've been behaving. You've survived on this earth almost twenty four years without getting yourself killed, arrested, knocked-up or screwing up otherwise. And you're almost always far from suicidal.
So do me a favour and get your shit together some point this millenium. We both know you're more than capable of it and if (and when) you get there, we're going see eye to eye on a lot more things. You know where I stand and I know where you want to. Besides, I'm a little tired. For the best years of your life I've been fighting for you, and I don't know how long I can keep it up.
Butch up, bitch. It's about time.
Lots of love,
Your Mind
I remember the first night it happened, you got pretty mad. You had your earphones jammed in, listening to Twist and Shout so loud that it hurt - anything to block out the noise of being taken forgranted. Like a man obsessed, you did everything you could to ignore the people around you, creating twisted, macabre little pieces of art that made you seem more dark and demented than you really are.
The next night it happened, and the next, you pretended nothing was wrong though you were so incensed that it was watching the world pass through a haze of red heat. You may even have cried though mainly, you were just feeling angry and more than a little murderous. The rage was like a huge stone pressing down over your heart and mouth, blocking the words and forcing them out as tears.
Well, the last night it happened, you got really fucking pissed off. And still, you followed the sun to ground like a wandering cowboy watching the shadows grow longer and finally pall in the face of night. We had a long talk past midnight you and I, and I thought maybe we'd reached a consensus though looking back now, I'm not surprised I was wrong. Morning broke, and you went back on your word. I can't say I was mad - I'm not really responsible for what you do half the time and frankly, it's not like I'm in charge of the clean up either. You can jump through all the hoops you want and I'll always be here, waiting patiently for you to regain your senses, or not. It's no skin off my back - metaphorically speaking, you understand.
As long as you're sentient though, I want to point out one thing.
You may be quirky, but we both know you're also really quite sane. People may laugh, but it's not like you don't know how to make them take you seriously either. You're far less emotional than you've been behaving. You've survived on this earth almost twenty four years without getting yourself killed, arrested, knocked-up or screwing up otherwise. And you're almost always far from suicidal.
So do me a favour and get your shit together some point this millenium. We both know you're more than capable of it and if (and when) you get there, we're going see eye to eye on a lot more things. You know where I stand and I know where you want to. Besides, I'm a little tired. For the best years of your life I've been fighting for you, and I don't know how long I can keep it up.
Butch up, bitch. It's about time.
Lots of love,
Your Mind
She said, she said at 9:57 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home