Wordless

I am suddenly gripped by a new kind of despair, as if I had been left behind in some dark corridor of this maze that we call life. I am feeling melodramatic, and I need someone to talk to, but it is too dangerous, I guess. I will not write it here because I have to think of you, my reader; I will not betray anyone here. But recent developments have troubled me...how did it come to be this way? How much of it is something that a past self chose for the right-now, right-here me?

Read Shirin's publication poem, and am thinking of all the things that I did not want to experience, the joys and the pains alike. I refused to know; now I still dare not know, though a part of me is melting away because others have taken that path before, and to a certain extent I am beginning to regard it as something that will ultimately be good for me.

I just don't want to upset this comfortable existence; rather than jump ship, to instead cling on to every last scrap of my dissolving mound of driftwood, in this our seething sentient sea.

in the face of this new vulgarity
I stand blushing and young
unable to use the proper word

* * * * *

Do you not think that there is a certain something incisively melancholic about a classical guitarist staring at a computer screen at instructions of how to play familiar love ballads, and strumming to the captive speechless audience, his fingers haloed electronically and plucking out a sad melody dedicated uniquely to the Somebody?

pondered by phoenican @ 7.3.05