if judgments were visible we would flee our rooms for fear of fire, resting a palm or a cheek against the wall, feeling for heat before falling to the floor, so we can breathe just below where the hatred floats, humbled away on hands & knees.
burn your notebooks and listen to the rest of your body.
cities are sets where we stage our dreams and nightmares. most of us too poor or weighed down with debt. what we owe submerges us, keeps us flailing in slow motion beneath the waves.
how can you ever be anyone else and never leave?
i know what i am a few incidents away from losing, but wasn't i always a few incidents away from gaining something as well? how often are you just a few incidents away from love?
catastrophe forces us to choose all over again, to organize what's alive. faced with such cliffs, we always exclaim, "what have i done!" instead of asking, "what have i chosen?"
i feel like a bus driver who always drives the same route.
versions of ourselves, both newer & worn too well, breaking & already broken, pass like a melody played on an instrument you do not touch, through rooms of old wood, in a house that survives from a previous era of the place you live and falsely feel yourself at home in.
standing in the line of thought
it's not enough to drop what you have
you must untie the knot
images from http://www.placehacking.co.uk/tag/caves/
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