 |
|
|
23 May 1999 up there where there is no music no bird no sea just clear, stinging blue you are still as alone as before. Now it settles over you like some quiet calm a peace accepted simply because you're tired of fighting it. And so now you think you're learning a new art a new way to write, to sing, to paint and create, all with open hands and silence. The art of letting go, you say. Making with every stroke, every note, every child a statement: the past is the past. What's been done is simply that. Unchangeable. Irreconcileable. Well, almost. If that were true, you wouldn't have those nightmares. You know, with the crazed beasts and henchmen stalking you each and every night. It's the same, you see, the way his kiss haunts you like Van Gogh: a tragedy, a beauty that you can't quite resist. The same with the tears for the aunt, the grandfather, the hope for happiness that doesn't quite materialize. Materialize the way the liquor, the blurred men, the cruel games-- of course, these are all too real. Too real like the blue, oppressively so, impossible to sidestep. In this blue, you are still as alone as before. |
| |
|
