Sad Labels:
sad
Running stairs in the room next door. Footsteps drumming like anxious fingers. Impotent earthquakes trace the transitions from when to if. We crumble because all those adhesives lied to us.
At the anchor's eblow. Where the choices dream of being right. At the decision's breast. We nervously unbuttoned her blouse only to discover she had always been naked. That there was only pleasure in not knowing.
Weren't we flannel? Weren't we velvet? Tactile monsters in lover's clothing. Creating answers to riddles that didn't exist.
Tomorrow came and went without ever knowing how long I'd waited.
I thought of this quote when I read your post today:
"Life would be unbearable if we made ourselves conscious of it."
--Fernando Pessoa
Do you ever feel as if your insight into life, the way you see it and express it in your writting, has ruined it for you?
I feel like you have a way of expressing the reality of life, the unrewarding predominance of existence.
thank you for your kind comments on my last post. I have thought about starting my own, but I'm hesitant.
I love the line "we crumble because all those adhesives lied to us." There is something wonderful with the word "crumble" being used with adhesives. It seems to suggest that if something crumbles, then it should have never been adhesed. Crumble suggests a bumpy texture and adhesive seems to suggest "needing a flat surface." I feel this statement is tremendously insightful, but then again I could be way off from what you were going for.
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