Box Full Of Letters
"I'm sorry," I would have offered, but once crossed these bridges cannot be backtracked over. We have to meet each other in that place the Russians hold in such high esteem: forward.
It's like a building being reduced to rubble, the heart breaking. What can you do, other than stand far enough away so as not to be cut to ribbons by the shrapnel, wait, rebuild? What can you do.
But there is certainly this new loneliness. Not necessarily a thing of pain or discomfort, it's just labelled under the category of "other." Haven't quite figured out if this is a passing ripple, a part of the transitory. Gemela. That will always be something special. That will always be something for just you and me. We were going to travel to West Africa, to be treated like royalty! And in my mind we did go, a thousand and two times. Lately I've been feeling as though I'm living inside a Salinger novel. Fear. The cycle of rejection. Lives you don't want to lead but could see yourself falling into. The mind's failings. Weaknesses. The constant pressure of high tide waves slamming into the break wall. And do you break? A million times and you cannot break, not even once! Not even once.
Visions of the open road and the feeling of absolute freedom that comes, after the fear and quaking and pain have left. Flight. Recollections of a bench in a garden in Athens. The look that says he detests me and inability to feel anything but apathy. What can you do? These things repeat themselves. Life is cyclical, isn't it?
Because being appreciated is tertiary to simply being accepted. And at primary is being treated with compassion. Because all three are absent.
It's like a building being reduced to rubble, the heart breaking. What can you do, other than stand far enough away so as not to be cut to ribbons by the shrapnel, wait, rebuild? What can you do.
But there is certainly this new loneliness. Not necessarily a thing of pain or discomfort, it's just labelled under the category of "other." Haven't quite figured out if this is a passing ripple, a part of the transitory. Gemela. That will always be something special. That will always be something for just you and me. We were going to travel to West Africa, to be treated like royalty! And in my mind we did go, a thousand and two times. Lately I've been feeling as though I'm living inside a Salinger novel. Fear. The cycle of rejection. Lives you don't want to lead but could see yourself falling into. The mind's failings. Weaknesses. The constant pressure of high tide waves slamming into the break wall. And do you break? A million times and you cannot break, not even once! Not even once.
Visions of the open road and the feeling of absolute freedom that comes, after the fear and quaking and pain have left. Flight. Recollections of a bench in a garden in Athens. The look that says he detests me and inability to feel anything but apathy. What can you do? These things repeat themselves. Life is cyclical, isn't it?
Because being appreciated is tertiary to simply being accepted. And at primary is being treated with compassion. Because all three are absent.
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