I got the message
Silence Silence Silence Sigh
I never loved you
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Monday, December 2, 2013
The Green One
I will myself to stop, to finally stop running. I stop because I've reached my destination, not a final destination. Just something to reach for in this moment: the market.
I look down at my choices. There's quite a fine array. As a creature of habit, I always go for the same ones. But not today. Today I pick the one that I've always ignored, abandoned, kept a safe distance from. I pick the green one. To match my mood.
I have what I came for. So I pay. I leave. I can't have it yet though. I still have to wait, like I always do, like I'm used to. The bag is heavy in my hand on the walk back. Everything seems heavy.
I make it home, just a temporary home. I wonder now if I really have an actual home or if it's just a house. There's a difference, I know.
I clean as soon as I'm in the room. I tidy things to make them look presentable. I go through the motions so that I can keep my mind off of things, things that I'd like to run away from, things that I am not accustomed to, things that feel heavy, things that make me doubt the existence of home. Things that are painful in a way that I cannot really explain.
Until I take a bite, and the flavors come rushing in. A lot stronger than what I expected. What I taste is sour, like things that have gone bad. What I taste is crisp, like the way porcelain must feel before it knows it is going to hit the ground and shatter into pieces. What I taste is sharp and acidic, and there is nothing else so cutting to the senses. What I taste is the perfect apple.
I look down at my choices. There's quite a fine array. As a creature of habit, I always go for the same ones. But not today. Today I pick the one that I've always ignored, abandoned, kept a safe distance from. I pick the green one. To match my mood.
I have what I came for. So I pay. I leave. I can't have it yet though. I still have to wait, like I always do, like I'm used to. The bag is heavy in my hand on the walk back. Everything seems heavy.
I make it home, just a temporary home. I wonder now if I really have an actual home or if it's just a house. There's a difference, I know.
I clean as soon as I'm in the room. I tidy things to make them look presentable. I go through the motions so that I can keep my mind off of things, things that I'd like to run away from, things that I am not accustomed to, things that feel heavy, things that make me doubt the existence of home. Things that are painful in a way that I cannot really explain.
Until I take a bite, and the flavors come rushing in. A lot stronger than what I expected. What I taste is sour, like things that have gone bad. What I taste is crisp, like the way porcelain must feel before it knows it is going to hit the ground and shatter into pieces. What I taste is sharp and acidic, and there is nothing else so cutting to the senses. What I taste is the perfect apple.
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