Beat Tape II

It's the difference between whole and hole.  Minute, but definitely not minute; in fact, infinitely not minute.  Or the difference between halve and have. Small things can hold a surprising amount of meaning; small things can hold too much meaning, the way you think you've only got a few books in your backpack and then it is so heavy, or the way you pretend things don't bother you, when they bother you so much.

I wonder if you're reading this in my voice; it's why I put in italics and made words bold.  The difference between my internal voice and yours is minute; but definitely not minute because with the wrong stressor, the wrong emphasis, everything changes.

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I've heard a lot of people say that, "it matters little what you say; it matters greatly what you do."  But both hold meaning.  There's this book called Everything Matters and everything does matter but in the end doesn't nothing matter and what are we even doing here?  We're fucking everything up and isn't the world ending? Finals are shitty and the world is ending and the presidential candidates have upset me and my face is breaking out and isn't everything wrong?  Read that in your best impression of an eighteen year old me, panicked college student just trying to make it through.

Everything matters.

Every thing matters.

Every. Thing. Matters. 

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I watered the plants last week, their yellowing edges started to fade,
and is it Sunday anymore?
You dealt me out a perfect 21, face and faceless card staring up
while the ring of condensation from my glass grew thicker,
and is it Sunday anymore?
Vacuum-cleaner lines were a perfect crisscross
flamingoes in the yard and elephants in the bed
of the littlest pair of feet in the house,
and is it Sunday anymore?
Coffee grinding through the old electric beast
piles of blankets now flick the fire on
spread your cold hands across my cheeks
watch the window like the sentinel you are,
and is it Sunday, Sunday, Sunday, anymore?
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"something you gave me

I focused on

A hundred moments ready drawn

Into my memory."

Beasts of a Very Different Nature // Now Is Good

I felt whole.  There wasn't another way to describe it, I was just whole.  And there were a bunch of laughing girls around me and the performances were in full swing and I was freezing but smoldering and everything was whole. Celebrations, a way to celebrate who I am.  What a good way to spend a thursday (avoiding my homework, lol).
Freezing, but smoldering. How, you ask? I couldn't explain, even if I wanted to.
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Fatal Flaw; mental or physical weakness.  I think everyone has one, especially in every book I've read.  Ifem is stubborn, Romeo and Juliet are both love-crazed idiots, Hamlet is too revenge-focused, Anne's is that she was too easily swayed by others, it goes on.  And mine? I'm afraid, terrified, petrified, whatever, of being in love.  God, I talk so much about love.  And I know I do, but I can't stop myself.  In the midst of so much love, from so many people, I can't help but be scared.  I can't help but be terrified.
It's easy, it's so blindingly easy.  Why is that?  It's overwhelming and all-consuming. And I have said for such a long time, that I never would, I never wanted to.  I was a cliche waiting happen, for god's sake.
Beholden.  My least favorite word.  I never wanted to find myself wanting to be beholden to anyone or anything.  Independent.  One of my favorite words, how I always describe myself.  I'm not.  I'd like to think I am, but I'm not, because I'm hopelessly dependent; hopelessly and incurably.
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Ocean eyes, steady and blue; she'd like to turn inside out.
Feel the world through a different skin; inside out.
And the sun is setting, pushing the world into a twilight
which knows not of you.
Radio silence no longer an option; she'd like to turn inside out.
Easy to pretend, she doesn't know what it tastes like,
biting to find blood but instead
wanderings flow out and she'd like to pretend.

Ocean eyes, steady and blue; she'd like to turn inside out.
Feel the world through a different skin; inside out.
Smooth, inky longing of something else, she'd like to pretend
it's unknown but ocean eyes sees more than anyone should;
texture of skin, curve of lips, feel of wanderings which flow.
Ocean eyes, steady and blue; she'd like to pretend,
she'd like to turn inside out and feel the world
through a different skin.

Ocean eyes, she knows more than anyone should,
Ocean eyes, steadily deep, steadily blue,
wades in too deep, turns herself inside out and
she'd like to pretend; but the world is changing colors,
and you can't stop the revolving.
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"Could be playing hide and seek from home
Can't replace my blood
Yeah, it seems I'm never letting go,
of Suburbia."

Life, man. Oh, life.