28 oct. 2009

Blink

I don't like burning letters. And I don't like writing emails and not hitting "send". I don't like truths told only through the eyes. I don't like not being able to say "I'm sorry", or "thank you", at all or without a tremendous twitch of the nerves. I don't like hearing sweet words and bittering them with the downcast eyes of doubt.
I don't like breathing in the present so ferociously, flushing down the past to a dark undignified cellar.
You say what else to do after being shot and remembering you're not bulletproof. You don't like illusion do you, you say.
And I say I guess maybe you're right, and really how permanent is writing anymore really, there is no crime in burning letters, spoken words are more permanent.
And so I become like you. And call it growing up.


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