struggle with me, I'll struggle with you
But not like society, not with the yelling, not screaming, not the rage that's been burning all week in the furnace of you-can't-you-could'nt-but-still-you-didn't. (Suprising.) My calm, my serene. Telling the tales of how the weekends start out the desperate down-hill trend. Then the finer points of symobology that was spread out over the dinner table that negated the chance of worship before it graced the electronic radio-waves between the city of angels and city of wind. Heaven and earth. Sky and ground.
Hour laters. And, there's a messege in the inbox warning me that, in two weeks, I'll be in the colder regions of this it's-too-damn-vast country. Cuddled warm in your arms, head on your shoulder, rest dwindling down quiet in your embrace, stealing snatches of oxygen from your air.
Wait. There's 24 hours per day. 60 minutes per hour. 60 seconds per minute.
6:48 pm.
How much of a day is that?
I'm no good at math. Maybe you can sort that out for me.
Existing for two and some-fraction-of-a-day days in the vibrations and echos of your light, anyway. Light I've been yearning for. Light I'd been shivering for. Light you should know I'd die for.
In other words, I can't wait.
-RK
Hour laters. And, there's a messege in the inbox warning me that, in two weeks, I'll be in the colder regions of this it's-too-damn-vast country. Cuddled warm in your arms, head on your shoulder, rest dwindling down quiet in your embrace, stealing snatches of oxygen from your air.
Wait. There's 24 hours per day. 60 minutes per hour. 60 seconds per minute.
6:48 pm.
How much of a day is that?
I'm no good at math. Maybe you can sort that out for me.
Existing for two and some-fraction-of-a-day days in the vibrations and echos of your light, anyway. Light I've been yearning for. Light I'd been shivering for. Light you should know I'd die for.
In other words, I can't wait.
-RK
2 Thought(s):
You're allowing comments once more? Good.
I kept wanting to comment - of course, most of the time these beautifully-written things seem like they ought to stand alone. Seriously, like commenting is desecration.
I like the bit about "the electronic radio-waves between the City of Angels and the City of Wind." You manage to make a telephone-call to Chicago (I think) sound poetic. It's definitely a gift of yours.
Wow. Thank you.
I guess it's just - I don't believe it. That people, that someone - anyone could mean it. That that could be sincerity.
When I look hard at these words, I see the broken shafts of gears that don't go. I see the shakey grounds they're planted on. I see uprooted vineyards and thieveried words that will always stand as something else.
And I see two feeble, god-forsaken hands spinning all the spider-webs that they're created on. And I think, No, she's no god, no creator. She's no star-- not even stellar. And these words, like their inventor, are nothing.
And like a hillside brown from the fall, I'm just awaiting her destruction.
So, I doubt and part of me would rather not know, rather not hear. Rather be deaf to their cheers - because so often, in me, they stir that doubt, that iniquity I can never match.
That god-likeness I can never achieve. That perfection I fear I'll never be near.
And, more than I doubt, I fear. Reveal too many pieces of me, of this old clock's inner workings, and soon someone'll have it all laid out, all figured and bare.
And I fear them...
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