Archives for August, 2004

it’s like a joke we keep repeating in the hope that one day it’ll get a laugh.

“hope is the denial of reality.”
- anonymous

it’s like every word can be weapon. sometimes a hammer, dull, bludgeoning away at the strength necessary for life. sometimes a knife to twist in a wound not yet full healed.

if here was black and here was white, i could ignore the reds, the blues, and above all the greys. but i have to also deal with the yellows, the greens, the shades of trust and responsibility.
but everytime i hold the paintbrush in my own hands, my fingers start to shake. so where i imagined a work of beauty stunning in its honesty, i am left with a nervous scattered collection of broken watery lines.
all this to prove to others my own strength of conviction.
until finally i begin to take my creations as reliable portraits of myself.

and then i lose.

it’s been a long time since this house has seemed so bright, so washed in sun. but then again, it’s been a long time since i’ve been home at this time.
footsteps and the incessant creaking of doors. voices, cutlery, old movies, a symphony of family at home.

yesterday, when i was home alone and diligently working away, it had been quiet behind my music. and in broad daylight, in the mellow afternoon glow, a cricket was sounding its song.
it was slightly disconcerting listening to it, standing in the {grey} kitchen. the emptiness in me refused to echo, a superficial appreciation, an impression like skids on ice.