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25.9.06
on finding butterfly wings.
Is everyone special? does everyone carry beautiful and strange moments, wonderful secrets; the kinds of times that marry harsh ununsualness with beauty, or being alone with the sonorus witnessing of something purely personal, buzzing in the tongue of your mind: alka seltzer of perfection.
does everyone have a measureless piece of awe they could fit into a piece of foreign cinema?
Imagine if you told someone everything from your mind, your heart, youre little soul, your every anomalous sliver of humanity in one sitting, unwrapped your absorbing theories and compelling thougths in a single go, like brightly-coloured sweets in cellophane. You'd be out of stock. you'd become so entirely naked as a person, stripped the colour of toilet paper, bare and hollow.
maybe every secret, or inadvertant secret, or hidden thing you collect inside the envelope of your ribcage is meant for a different friend, a different person. Maybe your fragments are all sent away as if in a quiet airport or an obscure tube station at night to be with someone else.
does everyone experience the beauty of an accidental amalgamation of events, feel it's sad weight, or is it the keeping of these inside yourself which makes it wonderful? giving them a place a miniature epitaph of rememberance.
Or, do some people let it go unnoticed, like light fittings in buses? how, they are damaged or grafittied or working or new - everyone cares very little if they were there or not. the people who sleep the second their smooth young faces hit the pillow. The people who always get the right equipment in lessons; know old wives tales.
i wonder when. i wonder who i'll share mine with. who theyre for. who theyre bound for or to be locked in me in selfish greed of this, o, fantasia of secrecy.
sometimes
i find it easier to explain to countless people who don't really listen
that one who really does.
whispered by killa b at 10:16 PM |
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