I thought you were a hunter,
so skilled in the chase,
shielded in armour so thick
you walk this world unharmed,
while us peasants fall at your feet
for the game you bring.
But its a beggar you are,
I see that now as you soak
up our love and our want
desperate to bathe that
fragile essence you’ve hidden so well.
You plead for more
because, clever thief,
that armour is ours
stolen not earned
when all of this time
You thought you were a hunter
You must forgive me for treating you this way. It’s not your fault. You’ve been there for me since I was a child, as constant and steady a presence as any other member of my family. You went with me everywhere, turning dull days into grand adventures that were ours alone. It never mattered that no one else has ever tried hard enough to see you. You never got angry with them when they looked for you in the wrong place or spoke to the air beside you. You would just roll your eyes and smile fondly because they always asked about you anyways and beamed with pride with each new story I told them of our day.
Then slowly something changed. Looks of pride were replaced with disappointment, and later worry, every time I said your name. There was no longer a place set for you at our table or space in our home. I begged them to explain what you did wrong, why they were so angry but their answers were vague and unhelpful. Things like ‘you’re too old now’ and ‘it’s not healthy’ but that doesn’t make sense. You’re family, just as much as they are, and you’ve always been good to me. Did that mean that one day I’d grow too old for them too?
They began to gawk at me openly, like a specimen on display, as if I wouldn’t notice. But it was the whispering that was the deal breaker. Hushed conversations soon began to fill every room I was in. It felt like I was living in a nest full of hissing snakes and it made my skin crawl as I waited for one of them to strike. As I decided it was time to protect myself, I realized that their blindness could work in my favour. I began to choose my words more carefully. I was vague about my day. I stopped mentioning your name and doing that “unnerving, speaking to empty space’ thing they always talked about. I stopped talking about you and in their eyes you vanished completely. Bold stares became small smiles. My freedom returned. The pride was back in their voices as they told me they were glad I’d finally let go and I couldn’t help but feel good.
But you mustn’t be angry with me. Because we’ve won and I’m surprised at how easily they accepted it. And the best part of my day is still when I return to my room and find you waiting for me. Because no matter what they make me say or do, I’ll always need you. And I can’t express enough how much comfort I find in knowing with certainty that you’ll never leave me. No matter what.
I have an extensive collection of photos of just your back. In the sunlight. On my bed. By the ocean or on a road. There are a lot of them. It occurs to me it may have been an early warning sign. They should be the images that hurt the worst, but they were the only ones to survive the purge. Because rather than a moment frozen in aching detail, I can imagine an endless number of things. From the look on your face to the shape of your mouth or the reflection in your eyes, and I’ll never know if I am right. I can study the lines of your body and the clothes you wore and all those pieces of you I am still able to enjoy without ever having to look you in the eye. Because if I did, I might just fall back down that tunnel and never emerge. And all my hard work will have been pointless because sooner or later, I’d be faced with this picture again. And again. And I already more of them then I will ever need.
(Source: quote-book, via shootingstarsandfallingobjects)
Fictive Rest:
The common inability of many people to be able to sleep until they have read even the tiniest amount of fiction. Although the element of routine is important at sleep time, reading fiction in bed allows another person’s inner voice to hijack one’s own, thus relaxing and lubricating the brain for sleep cycles. One booby trap, though: Don’t finish your book before you fall asleep. Doing so miraculously keeps your brain whizzing for hours.
"
You paint your body with
the words of the ones you love,
who sing of getting out and
getting through and I trace
my name in the spaces between,
dreaming of the day
we’d finally do the same,
racing the sun against the black asphalt
towards the horizon and into
that endless space away from all this.
But the furthest you’ll ever run
is here, sneaking carefully
into my arms, quiet
in the night for fear
of waking those things
that make this place uninhabitable.
So I loop more letters across your skin
instead, adding to your collection
of greats these truths you
don’t yet believe, so maybe in time
they’ll sink in and I won’t
be left alone thinking
‘Baby, we were born to run’
(via twcwelcomecenter)
(Source: accountedfor, via teachingliteracy)
