I don't understand in the toss and turn of the days how people with the world on a string, with the light in their eyes, with their flexible tongues that let loose conversation of the utmost of importance and interest, who's bodies exude the most concentrated of light remain blinded to all their great integrity.
These souls fail to recognize. Thus the pain of seeming perfection, the inability to cope, the inability to accept, the ability to push until dismal depths of depression, push and push beyond one's own happiness into someone else's that will never occur.
I understand, but want to throw my hands up in non-understanding while I sit alone and important conversation unfolds below.
(Wouldn't it be ironic if I could never unfold? Today someone told me I needed to have my tattoo touched up. But who can remove a scar like that? Goddamned Snoopy bandaid and skin glue.)
Self worth becomes marred by outer deprecation.
And fuck you for the attempts of flattery, of redemption, of let's-make-do because you don't see the wheels and the levers and the pulleys that adjust this state of mind in each intricate moment. Jealousy, envy, easily assumed, the truth behind the feelings rests beyond textbooks and grade school mentalities, instead, in the details and the stitches of environment and treatment, in the binding and the understanding, in the recesses of closed eyes and sheltered minds that suddenly become illuminated.
These souls fail to recognize. Thus the pain of seeming perfection, the inability to cope, the inability to accept, the ability to push until dismal depths of depression, push and push beyond one's own happiness into someone else's that will never occur.
I understand, but want to throw my hands up in non-understanding while I sit alone and important conversation unfolds below.
(Wouldn't it be ironic if I could never unfold? Today someone told me I needed to have my tattoo touched up. But who can remove a scar like that? Goddamned Snoopy bandaid and skin glue.)
Self worth becomes marred by outer deprecation.
And fuck you for the attempts of flattery, of redemption, of let's-make-do because you don't see the wheels and the levers and the pulleys that adjust this state of mind in each intricate moment. Jealousy, envy, easily assumed, the truth behind the feelings rests beyond textbooks and grade school mentalities, instead, in the details and the stitches of environment and treatment, in the binding and the understanding, in the recesses of closed eyes and sheltered minds that suddenly become illuminated.
I wrote an entry in my journal last night. It mirrors this, to a T. You were asleep when I came up, but I wanted to talk. So I talked to myself instead.
ReplyDeleteI love you, Jules.