Entry tags:
Silent and grey
I had a lovely dream about curling up quietly and affectionately with an old friend whom I always loved dearly (and carried the flame of my love for him long after I realised he would never be interested in women). In the dream we were close, and I felt secure and loved. Then I woke up and everything was grey and cold and miserable. It was already late enough that no matter how fast I cycled I would be late for work and arrive breathless and aching and tired; the sky was low and flat, the paths were all still wet and muddy, even sounds were dampened, and it seemed that there was nothing bright in the world.
I hate being a slave to the seasons, but the weather wears me down. People wear me down more, though. And they go in cycles, too; you love someone a little, then a little more, then a little less, and somehow the little things are the last to go. Years after you've forgotten the shape of their caresses, or the words you think they said they thought they meant, you find that can still remember how they take their coffee; you remember how they fold shirts the wrong way, not your mother's way, a different way that makes a hairline crack in the shell of who you have been, and behind that crack gapes the endless void of possible ways to live, so that a part of you can never be the same again; something as tiny and deadly as the shape of a sleeve can make all the memories of them explode in your chest again and leave you shattered, crawling in the dust trying to piece together a crutch for your heart to keep on stumbling on.
And all this happens in the blink of an eye so that all the disinterested observer sees is a bird or a leaf dropping dead from a bough, a tiny senseless death which touches them like a drop of rain from a greying sky brushed away by an unthinking hand.
I hate being a slave to the seasons, but the weather wears me down. People wear me down more, though. And they go in cycles, too; you love someone a little, then a little more, then a little less, and somehow the little things are the last to go. Years after you've forgotten the shape of their caresses, or the words you think they said they thought they meant, you find that can still remember how they take their coffee; you remember how they fold shirts the wrong way, not your mother's way, a different way that makes a hairline crack in the shell of who you have been, and behind that crack gapes the endless void of possible ways to live, so that a part of you can never be the same again; something as tiny and deadly as the shape of a sleeve can make all the memories of them explode in your chest again and leave you shattered, crawling in the dust trying to piece together a crutch for your heart to keep on stumbling on.
And all this happens in the blink of an eye so that all the disinterested observer sees is a bird or a leaf dropping dead from a bough, a tiny senseless death which touches them like a drop of rain from a greying sky brushed away by an unthinking hand.