Saturday, April 30, 2011
Awakening
forgetful, unwanted - tiptoe up and down and around and stop when you hear that beating sound; like a masterpeice in your ear, the sound of memories clear, but silly, you let them go; breaking the entry, move here and bury all the rest, and hide the rest - scarred, unwanted - dance bleeding on the ground, spin arpund and hear that sound; like a lullaby in your soul, the emptiness a hole, but darling, let it go.......you can't hold onto it all, you can't keep it all inside, like mountains are bound to collide - break the entry, break the soul, break the speech and the role, hide the rest, unwanted mess and breathe shallow; take the edge off in the words, find the way to heal the hurt and bear alone this curse - frightened, unwanted - die on the pavement in the darkness, the ache is taking over, leave it there and let it falter; to rise the next day, the day of awakening, and come forth new and whole and clean; prayer for the weary, for the weak - be strong, be brave, be great, but all you can be, silly, you can be.....anything.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
..............love.
I realize how much some of us hurt for love; we hurt in love, we hurt to have it, hurt to keep it, hurt to bear and hurt to lose it. We hurt while loving and hurt when losing; we hurt before, during and after. We hurt. I realize there is too much pain in this emotion called love. Maybe our fragile bodies, shallow hearts and weak minds were never meant to feel so godlike an emotion. Maybe we were never supposed to understand the depths of love. To love someone so much that you would let them love another and silently die a little more each day in your agony and your loss for no one will compare to them or to their beauty or to the purity of their soul. That love was never meant for us mortals. To love completely, unerringly, relentlessly and never receive. To be choked by heart ache and drowned in grief. That love was not meant for us here below. Surely, it was meant for immortal beings whose time frame to heal is far vaster than ours.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
....i want to assume that i know what i need...
there's a place in-between "i know" and "i assume".
it's a fine line.
a gentle string.
and some days i am holding the string in my hands and it nearly breaks.
there's a place in-between "i want" and "i need".
it's a blurred line.
a confusing thing.
and some days i assume what i want is what i need but i don't know.
you see this pattern i am caught in makes it hard for me to know without assuming and need without wanting.
when i get there, if i get there, i will tell you all that i know of what i need.
until then, you must hear me assume what i want.
my apologies.
it's a fine line.
a gentle string.
and some days i am holding the string in my hands and it nearly breaks.
there's a place in-between "i want" and "i need".
it's a blurred line.
a confusing thing.
and some days i assume what i want is what i need but i don't know.
you see this pattern i am caught in makes it hard for me to know without assuming and need without wanting.
when i get there, if i get there, i will tell you all that i know of what i need.
until then, you must hear me assume what i want.
my apologies.
Why Did Pandora Open the Box?
There are days I am unable to keep my hands off the box. Days I cannot even contain my wanting, my restless fingers, my itching palms.
I feel feverish when I stare at it.
That box.
There are days when I hear what's inside. I want to know what they are saying. Just a bit. Just a listen.
I think, I think they talk about you.
About me.
About Us.
There are days when the silence makes me worry and I want to peek inside to see if they left or if they decided silence was best.
The lid isn't locked.
I want to open it.
Today, they mentioned something of death. What if they spoke of you? What if they wish to kill you? I know I was told not to open the box, but what if they are plotting?
Can't I ask?
Please?
I think....I think I might have to check. There was laughter. And your name....................
I feel feverish when I stare at it.
That box.
There are days when I hear what's inside. I want to know what they are saying. Just a bit. Just a listen.
I think, I think they talk about you.
About me.
About Us.
There are days when the silence makes me worry and I want to peek inside to see if they left or if they decided silence was best.
The lid isn't locked.
I want to open it.
Today, they mentioned something of death. What if they spoke of you? What if they wish to kill you? I know I was told not to open the box, but what if they are plotting?
Can't I ask?
Please?
I think....I think I might have to check. There was laughter. And your name....................
Friday, February 18, 2011
OCD?
I watched a show tonight about someone with OCD, and it of course got me thinking. I mean, I am pretty sure I do have it - not sure how bad - but it’s there.
From an early age I had to do things a certain way and collected things in large amounts: Dalmatians, tuxedo cats, Sylvester, penguins, Sailor Moon, and now black faced sheep.
I organized things obsessively. My drawings were broken down to the completed, the needing to be completed, the ones to do over, and so on. The songs and poems and short stories were the same. Story notes were organized. I saved all the notes I would take in church. All the talks. The lessons. I filed them with folders and labels. Put the files in an order that pleased me.
I get on kicks for a time: I scrapbook, I cut clippings from magazines, I read, I research some topic, I write, I exercise, I organize, I clean, I memorize - - something. I do something obsessively for a time, and then, I move on to a new thing.
I suppose, walking into my room, it looks like controlled chaos. It is. My room has a certain “theme” and items are grouped together in a complimentary way. Pictures balance each other. In between, I toss clothes in a chair, leave papers in stacks, and over fill my bookshelves, so that it resembles a cluttered mess in my room. But things are the way I want them.
I hate disorganized kitchens. I fret over them.
Bees. They buzz. If I hear it, that’s all I hear, and I can’t tune it out. If it’s in the room, I won’t focus on much of anything else until it’s gone.
I febreez things obsessively after I clean.
If I had big enough bookshelves I would have my books alphabetized.
I used to put all thumb tacks into one little jar, and only that jar. Safety pins go in a little fancy pill box. I save buttons from items of clothing in case I need them. I save tags, too, sometimes. I save movie ticket stubs. Concert tickets, too. I saved the confetti from all the Enrique Iglesias concerts I attended. I also collected stuff about him and saved magazine clippings of him.
Before I turn off the car everything must be shut off, i.e. radio, air conditioner, windshield wipers, etc.
My earrings each have a special spot in the jewelry box. My hats are in boxes by color or texture or season.
Speaking of seasons, I obsessively wear seasonal clothing, eat seasonal food, smell seasonal smells and listen to seasonal music. No Christmas music or green velvet any other month, except December. Black and orange is for October. White sundresses for Spring and Summer. Brown summer skirts for late summer. I can’t do it another way, that’s how I have always done things. I think partly why my memory is good, is because I remember things by seasons, which in turn helps me remember them by months.
With all this obsessing you would think I obsess over body images. I don’t. I rather like my body, aside from the poor eyesight and scarring, and my hip, over all, I don’t worry or fret over it the way one might assume. Nor, do I obsess over other people’s. Take guys for instance: he could be insanely gorgeous and I won’t notice, but if he is interesting, I see him for what he is.
If I actually find a guy attractive AND like him for being interesting it’s a rare thing.
The people close to me are people I listen to. In other words, when they talk, I’m not actually thinking of three other things. I often think of all sorts of things during conversations. My brain is in all sorts of places. If I recall the conversation, it means I gave it my full attention, and I’ll probably remember a lot of it.
I can't wash dishes in the same dirty soapy water, each dish must be washed separately and rinsed separately.
I obsessively fluff my pillows, smooth my sheets, and do the same nightly routine before bed. I do the same routine each morning. I race the clock to arrive on time each day.
People. Back to people. I obsess over people from time to time. Not in a creepy way. I worry. I worry so much that I think about how to help them constantly. Worse, is that usually once I do this, I can’t undo it, so it’s there in the back of my mind. I have a list of people. People I want to help.
Once I get an idea in my head, I have to try. I can’t let things go. Sometimes I hold grudges. I notice random things all over the place normal people wouldn’t. My writing might be obsessive, my listening to certain songs constantly could be, my diets, my food kicks, my fact collecting, all of these things I have mentioned could be a sign of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Or I’m crazy.
I know 18 species of penguins. I am full of random sexual facts. Health facts. History facts.
I collect tree species in my head. I name them every time I see them. One day, I will learn all the constellations, flowers, herbs, poisonous plants, and insect names.
I’ll learn many languages. I’ll collect antiques. I want lots of rugs and pillows. One day, I’ll fill a house with art, fabrics, and things I collect while traveling.
From an early age I had to do things a certain way and collected things in large amounts: Dalmatians, tuxedo cats, Sylvester, penguins, Sailor Moon, and now black faced sheep.
I organized things obsessively. My drawings were broken down to the completed, the needing to be completed, the ones to do over, and so on. The songs and poems and short stories were the same. Story notes were organized. I saved all the notes I would take in church. All the talks. The lessons. I filed them with folders and labels. Put the files in an order that pleased me.
I get on kicks for a time: I scrapbook, I cut clippings from magazines, I read, I research some topic, I write, I exercise, I organize, I clean, I memorize - - something. I do something obsessively for a time, and then, I move on to a new thing.
I suppose, walking into my room, it looks like controlled chaos. It is. My room has a certain “theme” and items are grouped together in a complimentary way. Pictures balance each other. In between, I toss clothes in a chair, leave papers in stacks, and over fill my bookshelves, so that it resembles a cluttered mess in my room. But things are the way I want them.
I hate disorganized kitchens. I fret over them.
Bees. They buzz. If I hear it, that’s all I hear, and I can’t tune it out. If it’s in the room, I won’t focus on much of anything else until it’s gone.
I febreez things obsessively after I clean.
If I had big enough bookshelves I would have my books alphabetized.
I used to put all thumb tacks into one little jar, and only that jar. Safety pins go in a little fancy pill box. I save buttons from items of clothing in case I need them. I save tags, too, sometimes. I save movie ticket stubs. Concert tickets, too. I saved the confetti from all the Enrique Iglesias concerts I attended. I also collected stuff about him and saved magazine clippings of him.
Before I turn off the car everything must be shut off, i.e. radio, air conditioner, windshield wipers, etc.
My earrings each have a special spot in the jewelry box. My hats are in boxes by color or texture or season.
Speaking of seasons, I obsessively wear seasonal clothing, eat seasonal food, smell seasonal smells and listen to seasonal music. No Christmas music or green velvet any other month, except December. Black and orange is for October. White sundresses for Spring and Summer. Brown summer skirts for late summer. I can’t do it another way, that’s how I have always done things. I think partly why my memory is good, is because I remember things by seasons, which in turn helps me remember them by months.
With all this obsessing you would think I obsess over body images. I don’t. I rather like my body, aside from the poor eyesight and scarring, and my hip, over all, I don’t worry or fret over it the way one might assume. Nor, do I obsess over other people’s. Take guys for instance: he could be insanely gorgeous and I won’t notice, but if he is interesting, I see him for what he is.
If I actually find a guy attractive AND like him for being interesting it’s a rare thing.
The people close to me are people I listen to. In other words, when they talk, I’m not actually thinking of three other things. I often think of all sorts of things during conversations. My brain is in all sorts of places. If I recall the conversation, it means I gave it my full attention, and I’ll probably remember a lot of it.
I can't wash dishes in the same dirty soapy water, each dish must be washed separately and rinsed separately.
I obsessively fluff my pillows, smooth my sheets, and do the same nightly routine before bed. I do the same routine each morning. I race the clock to arrive on time each day.
People. Back to people. I obsess over people from time to time. Not in a creepy way. I worry. I worry so much that I think about how to help them constantly. Worse, is that usually once I do this, I can’t undo it, so it’s there in the back of my mind. I have a list of people. People I want to help.
Once I get an idea in my head, I have to try. I can’t let things go. Sometimes I hold grudges. I notice random things all over the place normal people wouldn’t. My writing might be obsessive, my listening to certain songs constantly could be, my diets, my food kicks, my fact collecting, all of these things I have mentioned could be a sign of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Or I’m crazy.
I know 18 species of penguins. I am full of random sexual facts. Health facts. History facts.
I collect tree species in my head. I name them every time I see them. One day, I will learn all the constellations, flowers, herbs, poisonous plants, and insect names.
I’ll learn many languages. I’ll collect antiques. I want lots of rugs and pillows. One day, I’ll fill a house with art, fabrics, and things I collect while traveling.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Thoughts on Life
Fitting In....
You can't just take an albatross and stick it in a room of geese and expect it to feel like it belongs. Who cares if they have feathers? Beaks? None of that matters.
You can't expect that albatross to get along with the eagles, or the condors, or the falcons, even when they all can fly for long distances.
You can't expect an albatross to feel comfortable with flamingos, or an emu, or even to feel comfortable with other sea birds. Pelicans? No.
You see, the albatross needs other albatrosses. It needs those capable of flying beside it for the long periods it has to fly, eating what it eats, and loving the sky the way it loves the sky.
Forget this whole, "birds can all get along because they have feathers" idea, and start viewing the individuals as their own.
Long Distance...
Distance. Does it matter? Does it matter how faraway someone has gotten from you when you really love them? No. No, it doesn't matter. But, over time, your life develops in ways that they no longer fit quite right into it.
You can't expect the painter to continue his painting when you decided to get up halfway through. His memory will try to recreate your presence, but as he adds layers, and colors, once you come to sit back down, I guarantee your shadow will be in the wrong place, and the colors have gone from sunrise to sunset.
Can you still be apart of his painting? Maybe. But it could ruin the masterpiece he created alone.
Dreaming...
Dreams are for those who are brave; if you aren't brave, don't dream. Just exist. If you want to test the limits of what you can do, become, and create, you have to dream. You have to have a dream, hold the dream, and learn that sometimes having a dream is like trying to give birth to a lawn chair. Sometimes it's not only going to be painful, but the edges start looking impossible, and you start feeling like it no longer matters.
Ignore that.
If I gave up on my dreams I'd probably be married, have a kid and possibly a second child on the way, broke, and unhappy. Instead, I have a dream, and I'm going to fight until I see it's glorious birth into this place we call reality.
Patience...
Suppose you are baking a cake, and it smells already so delicious, and you decide to take it out 15 minutes before time.
It's like warm cake pudding.
Sure, it probably tastes delightful.
But it's not a cake.
Patience must be one of the greatest virtues, for surely it's one of the hardest to attain and hold onto. We all love cake, and we all love eating, and we all love things that smell good; we're also usually impatient. We have to learn to take things as they come, give things time, and of course, once it resembles a cake we have to decide if we are going to eat it then, or let it cool and add icing.
Letting things develop in their own due time is a terrible feeling when we want it all "right now". I want so many things right now, but I learned, the oven door has to stay closed sometimes, and I just have to wait.
In the meantime, I'll set the table, get out the party napkins, and choose the icing color.
The cake is coming, the timer just hasn't stopped yet.
~Elizabeth Azpurua
You can't just take an albatross and stick it in a room of geese and expect it to feel like it belongs. Who cares if they have feathers? Beaks? None of that matters.
You can't expect that albatross to get along with the eagles, or the condors, or the falcons, even when they all can fly for long distances.
You can't expect an albatross to feel comfortable with flamingos, or an emu, or even to feel comfortable with other sea birds. Pelicans? No.
You see, the albatross needs other albatrosses. It needs those capable of flying beside it for the long periods it has to fly, eating what it eats, and loving the sky the way it loves the sky.
Forget this whole, "birds can all get along because they have feathers" idea, and start viewing the individuals as their own.
Long Distance...
Distance. Does it matter? Does it matter how faraway someone has gotten from you when you really love them? No. No, it doesn't matter. But, over time, your life develops in ways that they no longer fit quite right into it.
You can't expect the painter to continue his painting when you decided to get up halfway through. His memory will try to recreate your presence, but as he adds layers, and colors, once you come to sit back down, I guarantee your shadow will be in the wrong place, and the colors have gone from sunrise to sunset.
Can you still be apart of his painting? Maybe. But it could ruin the masterpiece he created alone.
Dreaming...
Dreams are for those who are brave; if you aren't brave, don't dream. Just exist. If you want to test the limits of what you can do, become, and create, you have to dream. You have to have a dream, hold the dream, and learn that sometimes having a dream is like trying to give birth to a lawn chair. Sometimes it's not only going to be painful, but the edges start looking impossible, and you start feeling like it no longer matters.
Ignore that.
If I gave up on my dreams I'd probably be married, have a kid and possibly a second child on the way, broke, and unhappy. Instead, I have a dream, and I'm going to fight until I see it's glorious birth into this place we call reality.
Patience...
Suppose you are baking a cake, and it smells already so delicious, and you decide to take it out 15 minutes before time.
It's like warm cake pudding.
Sure, it probably tastes delightful.
But it's not a cake.
Patience must be one of the greatest virtues, for surely it's one of the hardest to attain and hold onto. We all love cake, and we all love eating, and we all love things that smell good; we're also usually impatient. We have to learn to take things as they come, give things time, and of course, once it resembles a cake we have to decide if we are going to eat it then, or let it cool and add icing.
Letting things develop in their own due time is a terrible feeling when we want it all "right now". I want so many things right now, but I learned, the oven door has to stay closed sometimes, and I just have to wait.
In the meantime, I'll set the table, get out the party napkins, and choose the icing color.
The cake is coming, the timer just hasn't stopped yet.
~Elizabeth Azpurua
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Depressing, isn't it?
A terribly depressing scenario for you here. Not sure where it came from. I was going to write a love story, sad, isn't it? Apparently, I wasn't feeling the bonbons and sugarplum fairies.
I never understood what loss would feel like until I felt it. I assumed, that loss like other emotions, would eventually pass away with time; assumed it would become a memory in the corners of my mind.
Then, I lost you.
I had built up this world for you and I, complete with fairytale dreams of a home in the woods with a fence around the yard and three children perfectly spaced apart running through the trees. Little beds all done with matching quilts and perfectly spaced trinkets between the books on the shelves. There were shutters and a charming chimney in this imaginary future, and of course, there was you.
I never expected to be in this cold apartment in this noisy city where the clouds hang low, grey, sad and clinging to the feeling of those below trudging along. I never expected to sit in the living room with one worn sofa, a thrown out coffe table, and a bookshelf with all of four books: an unused cookbook, your old favorite book of poems, my mother's copy of Gone with the Wind and a very worn Bible I almost chucked from my fourth story window the day before.
I never expected the white walls would feel so bland, the floors so cold, the kitchen so abysmal, or that my bed would resemble a matress with a pile of bedding, like an angry giant rat disrupted the pile into a nesting place.
The bottle in my hands is not enough to chase the pain away, and never strong enough to send me into oblivion as long as I'd like to remain there.
I've thrown away the mirrors and hid the photos in a box under the sink with the cleaning supplies I never use.
My mother calls still, twice a week to see how I am, to see if I'm eating, if I'm alive, if I haven't jumped.
I only tried once.
The bridge was too cliche, the apartment not quite high enough, but the warehouse down the corner was so welcoming, it seemed just right in my head; imagining leaping as the pidgeons took flight seemed like a macabre painting taking life; muted greys and browns, my golden hair the only pop of color against the old industrial background of a forgotten time. It's a shame they wouldn't let me climb to the roof.
I suppose you would have thanked those men.
You wouldn't have wanted me to go on like this, would you have?
I guess you should have thought of this before you decided to take your life over something so trivial. We would have made it, could have made it, it would have been fine.
I never blamed you.
If that top step hadn't been so small and maybe if I weren't so clumsy, but none of it matters now. I really did love you more than her.
I never liked that staircase, anyway. It was too many steps, too curved, and the the wood was too light a color. Not that it matters, really.
I guess, in the end, you loved her more than you loved me.
Sad, though, we could have tried again, you and I. I would have liked that.
It never was your fault I fell, it never was your fault the ambulance couldn't get there in time, or save her. I never realized how hard it would be to convince you, but never, ever, ever, did I think you would end it all like that.
I guess we all hate mirrors because they show us what we don't want to see.
I wish they taught us in school how our actions leave such an impact on everyone, especially those we leave behind. I wish they prepared us for how we would come to hate the world. I wish we weren't raised on fairytales with "happily ever afters" and endings all tied neatly when the story comes to a close.
I never understood what loss would do to me.
Now I do.
By Elizabeth Azpurua
"Goldilocks Never Found What She Was Looking For"
I never understood what loss would feel like until I felt it. I assumed, that loss like other emotions, would eventually pass away with time; assumed it would become a memory in the corners of my mind.
Then, I lost you.
I had built up this world for you and I, complete with fairytale dreams of a home in the woods with a fence around the yard and three children perfectly spaced apart running through the trees. Little beds all done with matching quilts and perfectly spaced trinkets between the books on the shelves. There were shutters and a charming chimney in this imaginary future, and of course, there was you.
I never expected to be in this cold apartment in this noisy city where the clouds hang low, grey, sad and clinging to the feeling of those below trudging along. I never expected to sit in the living room with one worn sofa, a thrown out coffe table, and a bookshelf with all of four books: an unused cookbook, your old favorite book of poems, my mother's copy of Gone with the Wind and a very worn Bible I almost chucked from my fourth story window the day before.
I never expected the white walls would feel so bland, the floors so cold, the kitchen so abysmal, or that my bed would resemble a matress with a pile of bedding, like an angry giant rat disrupted the pile into a nesting place.
The bottle in my hands is not enough to chase the pain away, and never strong enough to send me into oblivion as long as I'd like to remain there.
I've thrown away the mirrors and hid the photos in a box under the sink with the cleaning supplies I never use.
My mother calls still, twice a week to see how I am, to see if I'm eating, if I'm alive, if I haven't jumped.
I only tried once.
The bridge was too cliche, the apartment not quite high enough, but the warehouse down the corner was so welcoming, it seemed just right in my head; imagining leaping as the pidgeons took flight seemed like a macabre painting taking life; muted greys and browns, my golden hair the only pop of color against the old industrial background of a forgotten time. It's a shame they wouldn't let me climb to the roof.
I suppose you would have thanked those men.
You wouldn't have wanted me to go on like this, would you have?
I guess you should have thought of this before you decided to take your life over something so trivial. We would have made it, could have made it, it would have been fine.
I never blamed you.
If that top step hadn't been so small and maybe if I weren't so clumsy, but none of it matters now. I really did love you more than her.
I never liked that staircase, anyway. It was too many steps, too curved, and the the wood was too light a color. Not that it matters, really.
I guess, in the end, you loved her more than you loved me.
Sad, though, we could have tried again, you and I. I would have liked that.
It never was your fault I fell, it never was your fault the ambulance couldn't get there in time, or save her. I never realized how hard it would be to convince you, but never, ever, ever, did I think you would end it all like that.
I guess we all hate mirrors because they show us what we don't want to see.
I wish they taught us in school how our actions leave such an impact on everyone, especially those we leave behind. I wish they prepared us for how we would come to hate the world. I wish we weren't raised on fairytales with "happily ever afters" and endings all tied neatly when the story comes to a close.
I never understood what loss would do to me.
Now I do.
By Elizabeth Azpurua
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
There's Was Something About Mountains Then
…it’s like a mountain of memories you’d have to climb through. You’d have to sort the good and bad, happy, sad, angry, feverish and focused, confused, dazed, torn and bridged, splattered and static, grateful and selfish and used, morose and forlorn, giddy, high, joyous, sinful and insane, forgotten, missing and longing; you’d never sort through it all. You’d never see the top. The fog. The mist. Those clouds. You’d have to pull me off the rocks, the ground, the dirt, soil, pebble - like rubble. I’m rubble. You’d have to remove me from that mountain. I’m inside like tree roots. I’m the leaves. I’m the cliffs. I’m the noise. I’m the moss, the bark, the grass, the subtle lights inside the trees; I’m in every place of that mountain. You’d never be rid of me. You’ll never climb through that mountain. Or fly over it. I’m the storm. The rain. The snow. I’m the avalance in winter and the ligntning strikes in summer. I’m never letting you scale this mountain. Never. Not the top. Not the middle. You won’t like the foot of the mountain. The roots, the shrubs, the rocks, the trees - they are the foundation. The meeting, the youthful fun, the learning, the growth - they are the beginning of the memories. The top? Who knows. You won’t. Sort the mess blown over, the mess grown over, the end of over is at the top and no, you’ll never know. You’ll never sort through it all. It’s mine. His. Ours. And you’re nowhere in this mountain. It’s all us. Moss, tree, root, cliff, rock, bark, grass, sky, storm, clouds, rain - fly; you can’t fly. Or climb. Walk away now. Farewell…and leave us be.
by: Elizabeth Azpurua (me)
by: Elizabeth Azpurua (me)
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Joy
I don’t think we can fully understand joy without going through sorrow - it’s different from happiness because it’s deeper and more appreciated. With joy, we finally appreciate what matters the most; love cannot be found without first learning sorrow, the difference of joy and happiness and the strength that comes from experiencing both. Happiness is the flower coming forth from the seed; joy is when it blooms, and love is when someone picks that flower from the garden. - Elizabeth Azpurua
Saturday, January 22, 2011
From Last Summer
Friday: “And no, I’m not immovable; hard mayhap to move, but the carpet of my existance can be pulled from beneath me. Swift. Swiftly. So, there. Now you know.” She said. Silence the response, followed by the sound of the air conditioning kicking on, whirling, cool air filling the void of where a voice should have said “I’ll never move you, you know, I won’t. I’d never try” but there never came that reply. And so the void lives still.
Saturday: “If I can’t hold onto the water in my hands I’m just gonna stay out of this well. I’ll stay away from the sea. I’ll move so it seperates you from me, and me from this, and who knows? Maybe I’ll cup sand.” She said. There was music filtering through another room, through the walls, but still the reply never came. The reply not even voiced by phantoms. “Don’t go so far. You never liked sand. I’ll bring a bucket for this water and it’ll all work out. It will. Keep my well…” never came from the void about the lonely room.
Sunday: “I never knew. I knew, yes…but not really. I thought…I thought, but I wasn’t. No. And who is to say tomorrow won’t rain down eyelashes and this stupid clock will get stuck at one second after 11:10? It won’t of course.” She didn’t even bother waiting to hear a response. She turned the light off. Let cobwebs in the corners be her solace and crickets the music of her masquerade ball. There’s no train coming tonight and no voice saying goodbye.
Monday: “Life is like a box of chocolates you find in the back of your closet. You know, the one from that ex boyfriend so and so, yeah, that one. And you open it and you think it’ll be pay day and discover that they’ve turned to powder. Taste like cardboard. The centers are all dried up. Did you know that? That’s kinda’ like you. Yeah, you. But you’re not listening are you?” She asked. It’s all cars speeding by and useless noise she hears. No replies. The sun will rise and set on endless voids until she hears “I always knew, but what was I supposed to do?” and she chokes back “I don’t know” and the dance starts all over again for life is really like a ferris wheel. One large repeating sphere.
by Elizabeth Azpurua
(2010)
Saturday: “If I can’t hold onto the water in my hands I’m just gonna stay out of this well. I’ll stay away from the sea. I’ll move so it seperates you from me, and me from this, and who knows? Maybe I’ll cup sand.” She said. There was music filtering through another room, through the walls, but still the reply never came. The reply not even voiced by phantoms. “Don’t go so far. You never liked sand. I’ll bring a bucket for this water and it’ll all work out. It will. Keep my well…” never came from the void about the lonely room.
Sunday: “I never knew. I knew, yes…but not really. I thought…I thought, but I wasn’t. No. And who is to say tomorrow won’t rain down eyelashes and this stupid clock will get stuck at one second after 11:10? It won’t of course.” She didn’t even bother waiting to hear a response. She turned the light off. Let cobwebs in the corners be her solace and crickets the music of her masquerade ball. There’s no train coming tonight and no voice saying goodbye.
Monday: “Life is like a box of chocolates you find in the back of your closet. You know, the one from that ex boyfriend so and so, yeah, that one. And you open it and you think it’ll be pay day and discover that they’ve turned to powder. Taste like cardboard. The centers are all dried up. Did you know that? That’s kinda’ like you. Yeah, you. But you’re not listening are you?” She asked. It’s all cars speeding by and useless noise she hears. No replies. The sun will rise and set on endless voids until she hears “I always knew, but what was I supposed to do?” and she chokes back “I don’t know” and the dance starts all over again for life is really like a ferris wheel. One large repeating sphere.
by Elizabeth Azpurua
(2010)
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