Journal sielwolf's Journal: The Day before the Last of the Year 1
It is important to know the end of all things, where they lead. If they have them, their multiple futures. To see where all the strings unravel and to where the strand stops. That which cannot end isn't worth much mention. There is little sense other then to feel your gaze loop along that horizon. That is a useless tautology. But the finite futures; seek them and go there, to inevitability. Life is not lived looking back up the river; the water takes you further downstream, faster, carrying you through... what? See the rapids, though they may crush you, you may grow weak battling the white froth and thin air, and suffocation. It is the direction of all things. Only memory can trace back to the mountaintop. Life is lived there: falling forward through the cascade of water.
Some things, if you let them drop, they fall and embedded into the ground. With their weight they sink, get swallowed by the earth and settle there; take root, poison everything; spread out through the roots of all the many trees and the whole forest whithers with stink. Many lives are estates where the grounds are epics of repeated failure left untended and the whole enterprise is corrupt from the very soil. Between the rot and the place there is no difference.
So I know a girl and she has here *points to a spot over his left shoulder, just about half way between his neck and arm* where there is a scar. Some sort of contusion was cut out from there and so there is now this uneven circular recess; the memory of that moment kept in the tough walls winking out like a pert sphincter. When I pointed at it she reflexively covered it with her hand, told her story and then moved so I could not see it and the topic would drop. I like it, which is difficult to defend. Not because it is a defect and so it pulls her down one rung. Or not because I am aroused and see anything more there than a wound that could not be forgotten. The geography is distinct. My fingers travel down from the nape of her neck and come to a place familiar, known and unlike anywhere else. We recollect: "we have been here." Seen with a touch. Only you.
Another girl, then, and this I think only I've noticed, wears her eyeliner in a way. Her complexion and skin is Mediterranean and so her lashes are dark to go with her eyebrows and waves of hair. And when she pencils her eye, she lets the black line draw out from the side of her eye ever so slightly. An Egyptian eye of a millimeter or two. Her eyes then rest on the checks of her face like the round sun sat at the horizon. Each of her lashes poke like the spokes on a gothic rendering of a star. The last vertical spike of eyeliner completes the unbroken periphery. Yet I haven't told a soul. Not even her. Unawares we silently share this secret. With me sipping on a Newcastle, she talks on the phone.
Words can ruin the moment/s (Score:1)
Or both all too aware of this 'shared' secret. I turn my head as our gazes meet, only to turn back to catch yet again, if only for a second as she takes the turn to play coy.
to put words on it, to solidify what that was makes it concrete and fall through the clouds. OR rather, to VOCALIZE the words attempts to pin down the ever mysterious electron.
ugh, fuck it. Thats enough words for now. Its skronkin' time.