Disconsolate...
To: The Conscious Areas of Minds,
Subject: I hope you have the time...
Would it be reasonable to say there is a part of me which could be described as the following: beyond consolation?
If it is reasonable, then it would also be reasonable to say that my relationship with JT, amidst its contortions and disproportions has taken this part of me and shrunk it considerably.
I had quite a lot of time to myself yesterday, when I started to write this. With a lot of time comes a lot of thinking. Thinking leads to these ideas, revelations, all the sounds of the inner monologue finally getting their chance to be heard. Hearing the thoughts, I was avoiding or trying to forget is always, in a certain sense disappointing.
A feeling like completing a report, that I hated researching into and finally getting it submitted to notice there is a typo on the penultimate page, an irritation that doesn't quite qualify to raise the pulse; a let down that doesn't seem to cost. The satisfaction of completion like the removed making of smiles.
Here, am I coming for it, the talk of it, should it be? Oh, these days, we'll never come back, did you remember or did you forget? For every step, I take, worth every breath, I take, as I turn, into, everything I hate. There must be a reason, like there is for the changing of the season. Will I go on, who would miss me, just to carry on. Why should I pretend, honestly I'm losing, with every move, I make.
Where does the tongue come out of the cheek?
Subject: I hope you have the time...
Would it be reasonable to say there is a part of me which could be described as the following: beyond consolation?
If it is reasonable, then it would also be reasonable to say that my relationship with JT, amidst its contortions and disproportions has taken this part of me and shrunk it considerably.
I had quite a lot of time to myself yesterday, when I started to write this. With a lot of time comes a lot of thinking. Thinking leads to these ideas, revelations, all the sounds of the inner monologue finally getting their chance to be heard. Hearing the thoughts, I was avoiding or trying to forget is always, in a certain sense disappointing.
A feeling like completing a report, that I hated researching into and finally getting it submitted to notice there is a typo on the penultimate page, an irritation that doesn't quite qualify to raise the pulse; a let down that doesn't seem to cost. The satisfaction of completion like the removed making of smiles.
Here, am I coming for it, the talk of it, should it be? Oh, these days, we'll never come back, did you remember or did you forget? For every step, I take, worth every breath, I take, as I turn, into, everything I hate. There must be a reason, like there is for the changing of the season. Will I go on, who would miss me, just to carry on. Why should I pretend, honestly I'm losing, with every move, I make.
Where does the tongue come out of the cheek?
BD
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