It was all a distraction

We should call them 'brother" now.

Tag: life


She’s walking throughout the forest, on a path. 

It’s dark, night, no moon. 

She stops and asks her brother if he’d like to go inside, and he thinks about it for a second and decides that yes, 

indeed he would like to be warm, 

so they go inside. 

It’s musty and they cough. 



I could tell you she had long, dark hair.

But you wouldn’t know.

You didn’t see her hair swooshing across her shoulders when she glanced at a noisy printer to the left.

And even that (even that!) cannot describe her. Everything I say ends up in a narcissistic jumble.


But maybe you can see it. The way it swooshed. And swooshed again.

I wanted it to swoosh a third time, just for me. I wanted every single strand of that hair to notice me and want me.

Her hair did not swoosh a third time.

Feel yourself.

Life on earth. Molecules whizzing around molecules.

Pain in the body. Mind dissatisfied.

A countdown from conception.

A body left behind.

(so then, was the body real?)

Everything goes.

Even the tallest trees will topple.

But don’t let that drive you insane.

The grass shrivels, the birds fall, but you


have somewhere to go.

You know that.

Your dreams are a bending playground. We flow in and out of each other and when we talk it doesn’t make sense but we understand what it means.

No boundaries.

To die is sleep. 

I think we’re all fragile.

We look around, wanting to be with anyone than the person who’s standing right beside us.

Look look look.

Growing up empties.

Home isn’t what it used to be.

Remember that?

When you were little and the blankets were warm.

The rain pitter patted on the window and you loved it, because it was outside and you were here, inside.

That was all that mattered.

All or nothing.

Today my brain feels muted.

And my calves are rooted

to the floor.

(Hopefully, the sun stays behind the clouds so I have no reason to go outside)

I don’t want to be here.

And everywhere else is no different (after awhile)

A million thoughts and seeds of inspiration,

a tiny funnel.

Nothing comes out of my open mouth.

It’s like

waking up.


you could be silent

and dormant

and nothing would be different.

%d bloggers like this: