sounds from the other room; i celebrate. its like i can't impress myself in my own taste, so i rely on others for the stimulation.
oh well though,
at least it stimulates me at all. to be honest though, its rare i'll hear one from one i don't know, or further yet from
one that is not me. i'm kind of ashamed but i do it anyway. i've tried to pin the word on many occasions...
(you could attest to this,
i am sure)
you see, i am not all that in love with myself, and often when the reflection is present, or the mouth of the 's', and the way my eye(s) deal with exhaustion,
cause me more than
i can handle
at times
even the thoughts from my head, or the words that i've said; inflections of tones and mood swings i cannot
grapple into fidelity.
sometimes i even think i might have a fiend in me. the way i ache in the winter, even when i don't. and the way my mother must think of me at times.
she called it a strange type of narcissus, and i like that; though i know she wasn't speaking of me.
i re read the words after they come,
after a nap,
after a drink,
sober
drunk
hungover
the music
sober
drunk
when he comes home
and begs me
to share
it
and then after
when i beg him
to
eat it up
and
spit it out
(again)
hoping to rid it of
those gaping gaps
and of course,
he always does.
i am not like so with photographs. (perhaps i am more assured with them than with the others)
but with paintings i find it hard to say good bye. i will, but
they've always bled the most
from me
i can't help but indulge the fixation at times, but then i think it can't possibly be the worst
thing about me
and at least i am that
in
love with the ( arts ) |ärt| subjects of study primarily concerned with the processes and products of human creativity and social life...
(at least i am that in love with something)
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