| Sunday, May 08, 2005 |
| Addict |
Envy that writer there, with her unresponsive eyes bristling with blissful catatonia.
Needing neither food nor water, she exists on air, fingernails and words. Her
faith that there are more and that she will be able to find her way to them carries
her through each day.
I want to be her: determined, pious, even now meditating on the lexical messiah
and how she may most quickly again commune with it.
I want to stare out of my dirty, bloodshot window knowing that there is nothing
behind me, and that before me lies only the golden path into the light.
One way.
The right way.
Go there.
What I want to take from her is the contra-melancholy. Instead of sadly
reminiscing about days of yore, she sinks happily in inkwell blue
pools of forgetfulness. Sitting on the bottom, she can gloss over
anything, gnawing pain, the most irritating itch. She is a circle
surrounding nothing.
Needing neither food nor water, she exists on air, fingernails and words. Her
faith that there are more and that she will be able to find her way to them carries
her through each day.
I want to be her: determined, pious, even now meditating on the lexical messiah
and how she may most quickly again commune with it.
I want to stare out of my dirty, bloodshot window knowing that there is nothing
behind me, and that before me lies only the golden path into the light.
One way.
The right way.
Go there.
What I want to take from her is the contra-melancholy. Instead of sadly
reminiscing about days of yore, she sinks happily in inkwell blue
pools of forgetfulness. Sitting on the bottom, she can gloss over
anything, gnawing pain, the most irritating itch. She is a circle
surrounding nothing.
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