The Rejectee is More Often Than Not the Rejector

Throughout the night I try to forget I was ever kissed, delicately against the nape of neck like I was something delicate to be kissed. Or that beneath flecks of dead flesh something foreign and soft bloomed—that inclined the orchids on my bedside to cling and bow, like I was something to bask in.

I close my eyes and drift away from the way my name was whispered in my ear, over and over again, like a promise assured and a desire confided.  I ignore the smiles exchanged, throw away maps traced, recant afternoons fermented by the buoyancy of your laugh because you asked questions.  About the scars that peeked out from the breaths of fabric I did not always cover because you made me forget. 

I rather call down the Sun, shut the blinds, and eliminate exposure so I can cradle myself in expensive linen...I rather push you aside, tell you to stay and paralyze you with my isolation...I rather bury it in the back of my mind—that you ever knew my story or that there was ever one to tell.  I rather watch the orchids wither and brown, suffocate beneath the weight of a shadow I cast on all things, than hear you when you tell me every scar is known, every mar beautiful.  Because I cannot stand the terrible lightness of Love.

I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness. I hear the ever-approaching thunder, which will destroy us too. I can feel the sufferings of million and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think it will all come right.
-Anne Frank


Song of the moment: Consider The Ravens - Dustin Kensrue (Please Come Home)
This entire EP is humbling; truly gritty and wholesome and down to earth.  Makes you want to light a candle and stomp on your front porch.

"It's a name for a girl, it's also a thought that changed the world..."

My inner strangeness could mostly be owed to my curiosity and love for eccentricity; finding the normal in the abnormal and the extraordinary in the ordinary. A sort of leveling I suppose—an even trade of beauty and substance till you find it in all things. Not that all things are wholly good or even beautiful, but everything has a tinge of beauty in it. And it takes a carefully trained eye to find it—or maybe just a person at peace with their own mix of darkness and light. But even that is a tad too self-flattering, perhaps it merely takes a person with a vague awareness of it, or, simpler still: faith—a wishing to see it so you do. Like magic. Yes, it’s like magic—so very absurd and other that the determination of fact or fiction marks the eye of the beholder in such a permanent and powerful way that it divides, distinguishing Believer from the Non. It can be alarming at times—like a house of mirrors, distorting and reshaping things you were sure had fixed form. It can unravel a rose’s beauty till you are simply awed by the nature of its thorn and make a crippled man strong, straight and true. It leaves you appreciating different things—things you never thought mattered or were integral because you weren’t looking as close or far away as needed to see it in its element. It’s strange, alarming, overwhelmingly simple yet complex. Dirty. Clean. Regenerating. Quiet. Flexible, dangerous and lovely. It’s Grace.

Don't Delete This

The unpoetic thoughts of an articulate person is the most poetic thing they have to offer.