a light to burn all the empires
so bright the sun is ashamed to rise and be
Yesterday, was it yesterday? It was Saturday night. I was walking from my car to my friend's house. On the way, given the weather, there were people in their yards, sitting on their roof, lounging on their porch. In a yard a few houses from my friend's was a girl, I'd give her seventeen. Seventeen? Maybe seventeen. She was on her front lawn and she was wearing a prom dress. I had been seeing prom types all over on the drive. Limos and tuxes and girls and life. But this girl. Gorgeous. The dress and the hair and the bag and everything about her was just, so. She was stunning. This girl was in her front yard, in her dress and shoes, and she was playing soccer.
God, where did that go. Where is that? That life? That need to live every second and be every second and make everything count? It is a stupid commercial, but it is not a stupid sentiment. Cause how many times are we going to get to do this? Look at her, man. She is on her way to the prom, her prom, and she is dressed and ready and while she waits she is not going to waste a single second, give her a damn ball.
Jenny is going to die. Today. Maybe. How many times have we thought that she was going to die today, that damn girl. But this time is probably the last time we will ask that question, because now she does not have the necessary parts to run her engines. They're gone. It's all gone, all that's left is her lungs and a little bit of skin. Not a lot. Some. And I think about this, this is getting to me. Because yeah, she's got hers and it is going out. Sometimes it's all at once, like a switch, but not always. Slowly. A candle. And it's fucking killing me, thinking about this. Thinking how many years are being stolen from her and how many things will never come for her and how much light, and life, and explosions and stars and nebulas and there is nowhere to go with it because you are dying, because you can't send it anymore, because the machines are grinding to a halt and it will all go with you. And I think about it. And I think about it.
And then I think about me. All that's left of me. All that's left of me is everything I was born with, and then some. I've got it all, man. I've got my own, I've got a fucking blinding strobe that I do absolutely shit with. Nothing. What do I do with it, I suck in all the horror and all the drama and all the nightmare and churn it through my brain and process it and metabolize it until it is seeping from my pores, the dark, but not the light. I want to punch myself in the fucking face for my waste. How much time do I waste going over and over and over the same thing, scratching the same itch, analyzing and deconstructing every mistake that I have ever made instead of actively, actually living? Why are we not out on the field in our dresses and shoes?
Yesterday, was it yesterday? It was Saturday night. I was walking from my car to my friend's house. On the way, given the weather, there were people in their yards, sitting on their roof, lounging on their porch. In a yard a few houses from my friend's was a girl, I'd give her seventeen. Seventeen? Maybe seventeen. She was on her front lawn and she was wearing a prom dress. I had been seeing prom types all over on the drive. Limos and tuxes and girls and life. But this girl. Gorgeous. The dress and the hair and the bag and everything about her was just, so. She was stunning. This girl was in her front yard, in her dress and shoes, and she was playing soccer.
God, where did that go. Where is that? That life? That need to live every second and be every second and make everything count? It is a stupid commercial, but it is not a stupid sentiment. Cause how many times are we going to get to do this? Look at her, man. She is on her way to the prom, her prom, and she is dressed and ready and while she waits she is not going to waste a single second, give her a damn ball.
Jenny is going to die. Today. Maybe. How many times have we thought that she was going to die today, that damn girl. But this time is probably the last time we will ask that question, because now she does not have the necessary parts to run her engines. They're gone. It's all gone, all that's left is her lungs and a little bit of skin. Not a lot. Some. And I think about this, this is getting to me. Because yeah, she's got hers and it is going out. Sometimes it's all at once, like a switch, but not always. Slowly. A candle. And it's fucking killing me, thinking about this. Thinking how many years are being stolen from her and how many things will never come for her and how much light, and life, and explosions and stars and nebulas and there is nowhere to go with it because you are dying, because you can't send it anymore, because the machines are grinding to a halt and it will all go with you. And I think about it. And I think about it.
And then I think about me. All that's left of me. All that's left of me is everything I was born with, and then some. I've got it all, man. I've got my own, I've got a fucking blinding strobe that I do absolutely shit with. Nothing. What do I do with it, I suck in all the horror and all the drama and all the nightmare and churn it through my brain and process it and metabolize it until it is seeping from my pores, the dark, but not the light. I want to punch myself in the fucking face for my waste. How much time do I waste going over and over and over the same thing, scratching the same itch, analyzing and deconstructing every mistake that I have ever made instead of actively, actually living? Why are we not out on the field in our dresses and shoes?
posted by machine central at 10:44 PM
1 Comments:
hello, I've been reading some of your posts and they really get me. I have an aweful migrane but I can't stop reading your thought, ideas... really interesting.
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