some sort of ending.
so i deleted my blog. maybe soon i will become silent and detached from everything that ever meant anything. don't worry, you didn't read it anyway. but i saved this post because i liked it. but the rest of it is floating around somewhere in the endless abyss of trash in cyberspace. someone please say something in french.
uptight
i wanted to post on the nation but didn't because i didn't want to be the one to follow naomi's poignance with words connected like legos of insignificance. so i am here, and wanted to say that it's good to be home in this difficulty. the chaos of transition is passing, and i felt like myself for the first time in a long time today: quiet, pensive, objective but entirely connected to the web of society surrounding me as i leaned back scratching my head in the car and watched people in the gypsy den-esque parlor. it felt pleasant again, as if the soft sway of voices scattered across the room were slowly waking me to the world after a long, tumultous sleep. people feel like poetry to me again, and it's pleasant to sense that somehow, something matters.
i feel like i'm being purged of the confusion i picked up like lint in the last couple years, and things are lining up the way they should, but how i couldn't quite figure out on my own.it's nice, like the round, yellow flower that stared at me from my table today, almost ironically contrasted with the darkness of the room that tried to imitate its beauty with paisely carpets and comfortable chairs, against my disillusionment and the rain in days of late. he, of course, will not last long in the vase by himself, but that is why God makes fields of wildflowers.
uptight
i wanted to post on the nation but didn't because i didn't want to be the one to follow naomi's poignance with words connected like legos of insignificance. so i am here, and wanted to say that it's good to be home in this difficulty. the chaos of transition is passing, and i felt like myself for the first time in a long time today: quiet, pensive, objective but entirely connected to the web of society surrounding me as i leaned back scratching my head in the car and watched people in the gypsy den-esque parlor. it felt pleasant again, as if the soft sway of voices scattered across the room were slowly waking me to the world after a long, tumultous sleep. people feel like poetry to me again, and it's pleasant to sense that somehow, something matters.
i feel like i'm being purged of the confusion i picked up like lint in the last couple years, and things are lining up the way they should, but how i couldn't quite figure out on my own.it's nice, like the round, yellow flower that stared at me from my table today, almost ironically contrasted with the darkness of the room that tried to imitate its beauty with paisely carpets and comfortable chairs, against my disillusionment and the rain in days of late. he, of course, will not last long in the vase by himself, but that is why God makes fields of wildflowers.
posted by Anonyme | 10:56 AM
2 Comments:
I read this post every time I checked your blog, which was once every two days or so. I liked it too, I had to read it every time I went. And not just because you said I was poignant. I'm wearing nylons for soccer, so I don't get blisters, and my toes look webbed. I remember the first time I saw nylons, I thought the woman had deformed feet. I don't know french, we should learn it together sometime.
i read your blog every day. on a couple of occasions i commented on old posts just to try to get you to post something new. it guess it didn't work. qui doit apprendre le français ?
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