Too white, unblemished.

Too white, vacant of words.

Words that should be flowing…

Maybe she should be writing, pen in hand

Paper that’s less white, sprinkled with lines

Not typing, viewing black streaks on a pearlescent screen…

She’s tired and she doesn’t think she’ll make it

She wonders what everyone else sees in her

She sees herself quit, again and again

And she’s not even sure what makes her this way

Except that she’s tired

She wants to start again

And again and again and again

But she never finishes in the first place

Why?

…the blinking cursor mocks her

She can’t collect her thoughts

What if she’s too much like him after all?

What if she’s too much like her,

The side of her she refused to see for so long?

She doesn’t know where to go

Or what to do or who to trust

What’s real?

And she wonders if she really knows what passion feels like?

She reasons that she has, but in this numbness and whirlwind of thought

She’s lost and unsure of everything

-even gravity

It all feels a lie

Some disgusting facade

Some dream she’ll eventually wake from

Run.

But to where?

From what or whom, and how?

Run until nothing looks familiar, and never let it get that way.

Maybe this is what he left her with?

This unquenchable urge to just run.

Not write or build or explain or prepare, just run.

In the memory of all the things we think are better forgotten.

“Forgive and forget”, they say.

Forgive, by all means forgive,

But please don’t forget?

How do you expect to learn anything if you’re always forgetting?

Forgetting the mistake that led to the need for forgiveness in the first place makes the entire existence of the human experience irrelevant.

We’re here to learn.

You cannot learn when you plague yourself with incessant forgetfulness of your faults, of their faults.

Remember.

Forgive, but please for the sake of every member – never, ever forget.

Always remember.

She became taciturn and riddled with strife,

She longed for the ossification of her heart,

Her soul became a cryophilic, silent part,

Holding on to the hope of tranquility

She didn’t realize her fragility.

<ART CREDS: Quinton Hoover. Earthbind. 1993, Wizards of the Coast, LLC>

My depths made you unhappy,
You tried to keep this unbeknownst to me, but what you didn’t foresee was that I’ve know that feeling all too well, and you can’t keep infernos from your no-longer prospective bride’s eyes.

I may be swallowed in depths untold,
And now you’ve pushed me down, tenfold.
I still see your space in all the lines of your face, far-off and too beautiful to erase.
I guess that’s just our case-

How dare us think that stars couldn’t sink.

How they squander resources and cause anxiety,

Our lives they seem to love to suppress,

For trifles that for sanity we need to address,

Shatter the crowns and with it their diffidence,

Only then will they see the peoples’ difference.

I hear their whispers of stories yearning to be heard from a multicolored sea,

Of fact, of fiction, of romance, adventure, disaster.

Each title sends delightful vibrations through my being as my fingers run over the spines,

Walking up and down the aisles,

Searching,

Savoring the way they smell and how each volume feels underneath my wandering fingers,

The way the light dances on their surfaces.

I stand in reverence of this room filled with worlds suspended on delicate paper,

Yearning to let the ink on the pages whisk me away.

Which one to choose first, is my only delay.

Hemidemisemiquavers in multitude,

My inclination, however was different.

But to my traducing of this cacophony

She remained incredibly indifferent.

The song continued along with my agony.