Monday, November 15, 2010


This collection of days, and this scratched up mind of mine, often seem incompatible with the present moment.
In this flat light it is hard to tell where I stand.
I walk past a building, or a space that holds some ghost of an emotion, and it seems like I am still there, hanging in the past.
A face conjures up some draft of an idea that I am unable to reconcile with the current circumstances.
I was so broken… so utterly irredeemable, and yet here I am; all shiny and new. I wear matching clothes and I pretend not to know how transparent my mask has become.
Everything is on the surface, so that it blends in with the passing of the seasons. I wear the loss of alternatives just like a bad tattoo.
But everyone seems to have tattoos these days.