it begins as a series of unfounded berations on everything; which in itself is a statement against nothing.
what really was needed was a place to begin.
there will be the ones who are forever lost in the maze of one's drunkenness.
in a way she feels like a drunken thought. spurted out without thought and then carried over to sobriety.
together with the ***** stained denims and the borrowed t-shirts (were they borrowed alright)
she can't be churned into the washer like the rest
she's out there burying herself in deep resentment
because she can not forgive me
she gave herself that disease when she refused to grant forgiveness for sins committed in anger
since when, though, has the truth ever been an offense?
cuts deep
deeper that the most merciful lies one can serenade her with
we can not have anything if we refuse to confront what is real
but ke?
what's done is done.
these berations on nothing itself
are all that is left
most of these things remain unexplained
the story in itself is synthesizing, everyday, unwittingly. unauthoured, playing itself out like water lazily floating down a river
towards a fantastic waterfall
or right into the mouth of a gaping, yearning sinkhole - where it will not die, but steadily keep propagating itself beneath all observance and veneration
and perhaps sip out from a well-meaning spring somewhere deep in the uncharted lands
it's like that. it should be like that. just as all else is what it is.