20.4.14

making mountains

I am losing myself in a wind.

I was gathered in a heap
(like a mountain)
with apparent seamlessness
(like garbage is gathered)
And when the wind came
(the wind always comes)
It took me away from me
(the edges first always)
But I am flapping my arms
(gathering always gathering)
I know it's not working
(paper boats in a rain pool)
because my edges are frayed and

I am losing myself in a wind.


18.4.14

april is the cruellest month

Everything is falling apart: but everything else is falling into place. 
If I ask the right questions: what are the right answers?
A romantic's desire: at the end of this, there will be sleep.

Not a dreamless alcoholic's respite; not restless nightmares.
Sleep, and dreaming. 

Surely.
 

8.4.14

monster

"All your life - all your love, all your hate, all your memory, all your pain - it was all the same thing. It was all the same dream. It was a dream that you had inside a locked room.

A dream about being a person.

And like a lot of dreams, there's a monster at the end of it."

-Rustin Cohle, True Detective.

(Also, is that a little tribute to Sandman, with the man in the gas mask immediately after this quote? So much joy!)

2.4.14

a paler shade of grey

Another story about a story.

It passes from hand to hand in secret.

Those who have heard it are distinguishable instantly: they seem to be shrouded in darkness somehow, as if they see a little less of every colour. When they pass it on, they won't know it, but they're sharing a bit of themselves.

The story itself grows. From each person, it takes its weight until there is too much of it. It hides inside allusions and leaves traces nobody can recognize.

A day will come when everybody knows the story but nobody will tell it.

Everything will be in paler shades, but you won't be able to say why.

**

(If paintings add layers and photographs peel them, what do stories do?)