Thursday, 02 July 2009

• Perhaps when it comes down to it, all our thoughts are just patterns, and our behaviour is just patterns. To keep moving towards change becomes a little bit futile, a little too corrupt to stand when the world itself doesn't seem to be changing. At least, not at a rate I can see it. Maybe I should read the news more to make each day a little bit more unique.

  But if I went back over my xanga entries I suppose within that would be change. That could justify everything! Everything.

  I forget to keep my drawers shut. I forget to pack my clothes away. I forget to wash my clothes. I forget to put my clothes in the laundry basket. I forget that I haven't done any of the aforementioned activities, and then I have nothing left to wear. But none of the real stuff that people care about is found in any of those forgotten activities. The only things people care about is in the memories. The remembered.

  No one wants to know if I have done something that has been done before. The historical records of people who have forgotten to wash their clothes would no longer be historical records. So, so much of my life just isn't witnessed, or noticed. Not even by me. Maybe by God? God, do you remember the things I forget.

  I always think its a waste, whenever people over-glorify the diaries of children that have had really sudden, famous deaths. Just because they're gone, doesn't make their thoughts any more important. Before they died no one would have cared. What about all those people who have died before, at an old age, who will never have their childhood thoughts written down or remembered by anyone!

  Am I Standing Still?

  Wistful and grieving
  You waited, I watched.
  Wilder, a forest, detesting all earth
  You were lovely, stretching out on that chair
  Lying, still, fixed to that bench
  Withering, and rusting, storming the clouds
  Your turbulent spirit, your face in the lake
  Your fear

  Have you noticed,
  There's statues that breathe water down
  Their marble arms held out to the sun
  That brilliantly spill all the hatred down.

  Now dusty clouds have filled the basin
  With reddish, brackish, opaque hate.
  Swirling, as I plunge my hands
  Beneath, as nails fix blood to palms
  That line my hands with whatever psalms
  You hear

  If the chair is shadowed
  By your wretched arm, or pearly gloss
  It'll hold the depth of Atlantis' charm
  And 'neath dimming moonlight, you will leave
  In the air of shrieking violins
  That grips your gaze and rips your smile
  From a suit, to a shirt, to your jewelled neck
  It's Hades parading down your spine
  You offer that hand because you believe
  Your ice-cold joy is mine

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