off toward the windy city
This time tomorrow, I should be basking in the warmth of blearly choca-eyes; a touch I sporatically realize I have the capabiliy of missing; the scent of a city I've never known until now; the shimmer, the dazzle, the brilliant coziness of being within ear-shot of the presence that makes me laugh uncontrollably - smile like it's authentic, feel merely five again.
Can you wait to be that juvenile, for what is technically seven days?
Never so much time to consider, to think, to be enveloped in a world I wish I was actually a part of. But no, I'll just be passing through. Like the rest of my life. Just passing by, just visiting. Never really home.
But that book, it's bound to be good - if not better. They always get like that. And the sound of his voice, reading things in Portuguese; saying things like that Wiggin says. The inflections when they're shouting. Sometimes forgetting to go back and correct after someone whispers. How, just to prove your human too, you stumble once or twice every five hours, and then sigh and make some passing comment about how you suck - and go on in spite of yourself.
I have to confess, I've been doing my share of dreaming. Thinking. Wondering and pondering and hoping. It's bound to feel like a dream by the time its over. Bound to look like a memory in moments, bound to feel like history in the next few months after it's close. It's bound to have a leather back and thin, yellowy pages that crackle from dust and what feels like old age. It's bound to sit on the highest shelf, and whenever its drug down its bound to have notes and scratches and memoirs scribbled all over it.
It's bound to be beautiful, like old age ought to be. It's bound to be old, to seem ancient, to feel distant - unreachable, untouchable, untaintable. And it's bound to seem perfect in the limelight, bound to feel like a legend as it fades. But we'll know that for a few snatches of time once long ago, it was real.
And that, if nothing else, will be enough.
-RK
Can you wait to be that juvenile, for what is technically seven days?
Never so much time to consider, to think, to be enveloped in a world I wish I was actually a part of. But no, I'll just be passing through. Like the rest of my life. Just passing by, just visiting. Never really home.
But that book, it's bound to be good - if not better. They always get like that. And the sound of his voice, reading things in Portuguese; saying things like that Wiggin says. The inflections when they're shouting. Sometimes forgetting to go back and correct after someone whispers. How, just to prove your human too, you stumble once or twice every five hours, and then sigh and make some passing comment about how you suck - and go on in spite of yourself.
I have to confess, I've been doing my share of dreaming. Thinking. Wondering and pondering and hoping. It's bound to feel like a dream by the time its over. Bound to look like a memory in moments, bound to feel like history in the next few months after it's close. It's bound to have a leather back and thin, yellowy pages that crackle from dust and what feels like old age. It's bound to sit on the highest shelf, and whenever its drug down its bound to have notes and scratches and memoirs scribbled all over it.
It's bound to be beautiful, like old age ought to be. It's bound to be old, to seem ancient, to feel distant - unreachable, untouchable, untaintable. And it's bound to seem perfect in the limelight, bound to feel like a legend as it fades. But we'll know that for a few snatches of time once long ago, it was real.
And that, if nothing else, will be enough.
-RK
7 Thought(s):
You need to write books so I can read them and be heartrenched and put them on my favorite's list.
So I'm guessing some of that was describing Widge reading to you? I guess I can see how that would be fun, actually, but it still would go too slow for me.
The book is bound to be many things. And who will be binding it for you?
(...Couldn't resist the play on words. Did I ever mention how cool it would be to be a book-binder?)
Avi, that was brilliant!
Answer: God.
(She called me brilliant! How butt-awesome is that?)
Good. A book bound by God is bound to be all right.
Yeah, totally better than that King James dude... :-D
AHHH the horrible puns!!
*runs away screaming*
Right, now I think it's safe to say this is just becoming absurd! ;)
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