Letting the Flame Inspire
<< 7:14 p.m. - Saturday, Apr. 10, 2004 >>
�Do I have to tell you everything I think?
Open book, broken wing
Do I have to show you what I really want?
Wounded dog, hounded heart

I�ll give you an inkling
Spare you a notion
Nothing more
You get what you pay for
Please don�t ask me what it�s all about

I don�t think I could say just how it feels
Arching flower, reckless wheel

Promise not to kill this silent conversation
Infect it with some expectation�
-Barbara Kessler

I have to write a memoir and get all the pieces to fit. Weave some elaborate cloth to show how all the inconsistencies eventually fit together. I can�t see an end to my writing. I can�t see an end to the feeling I get when I try a new chemical on. Who am I becoming with every twisted and fucked DNA strand? I recognize my faults, I can see the cracks in the sidewalk with microscopic precision, and yet, I�m not doing shit to change. I don�t want to. I look back at myself from aging photos, and hate what I see. All that time wasted by being silent and so full.

There are two people you will meet in this room. In the corners of a day, and in the heat of this little age, they are standing in corners, decked in dunce caps and false idols.

I�ve been trying to force out tears for a month now. They aren�t coming. Closer. Closer. Look deeper. If you can�t, if you can�t see yourself, leave the roof and stare at the sky. Leaves that push themselves into your periphery, let them be. In this sunlit sky, past the wavelengths that throw us off course; there is the ability to start over. To see yourself again.

We are just like all the rest, and we won�t be remembered past the fog of billions. So why the fuck are we twiddling our thumbs and waiting for the sky to fall and the wind to blow change at us? If you want a goddamned kite, set your heart on fire and touch the string.