a girl from school died today. today.
and all i can think of is if when i die, will there be as many people at the vigil down in south quad, and how many of those people do i care for, and how many of those actually cares for me, and how many will cry, and how many will cry because everybody else is crying.
we were on the third floor fellows, the boy who uses "concrete jungle" to describe an adventure to Columbus, OH, talking of death and humanity in low tones and poetic healings.
today.
and all i can think of is if when you die, i'm strong enough to go on, move on, trudge on, fade on.
i think of their car at the intersection, plowed by the on coming truck, 70 miles an hour and no moment of mercy. i think of her severed limbs and body, the blood rushing from lips that once smiled, cried, kissed.
today.
we wondered what her story was. we wondered if paris hilton died, how US weekly will run chronicles on little paris's life, and here we stand mourning a stranger who's closer than little paris will ever ever ever be. we wondered what her story was, and whether it mattered, and whether we mattered, and whether i mattered.
today.
i know i don't matter as much to you than ephemeral pauses in your eyes. i know it by the words repeated and the feelings reiterated. at the same time, i know i matter to you as much as i could this moment of suspension. i know your words are truer and your feelings are freer. i know i am bound by words that make shackles of my being. i know i've written too many love letters and meant every one of them brutally, honestly, faithfully. i know the sadness curling in my toes reflects the stillness in my eyes.
today.
someday i want to take the girl by her hand, i want to feel her feelings and know her possessions. i'm crude and rude to her. does she hate me and want to break me. that's okay. that's okay. i'm waiting for some resolution in this fictional moment. rising. falling. denouement. diamonds and ambers and kisses galore.
today.
somebody in france protested china about tibet. they think and therefore they are french. i read letters from frenchmen who trick wide-eyed girls with expletive-compliment after expletive-compliment. break down the fucking-gorgeous, fucking-hot, and fucking-good-fuck and see myself for who i am.
today there's much left to do, best to system shut down and stand by, best to live and breathe fully and appreciates what's precious.
fragile, i say.
fragile and therefore precious, he says.
today.