Beloved

She closes her book and looks up from his lap at the ceiling. He closes his book, too.

Her eyes glaze over, and a numbness begins to expand from her chest. He offers to take her wherever she wants.

"A cathedral," she tells him.

"Sugar, anything you wanna do."

They don't talk on the way, but he laughs at the quails crossing in front of the car.

He lets her sit alone. He circles the chapel and looks at the art while she sits on the second row to the far right.

Her eyes are fixated on the pulpit and she is unable to look at any paintings. After a long while, he sits behind her and presents the same offer as before.

"Back home," she tells him.

"Sister, anything you wanna do."

They don't talk on the way, but they hit a green light at every intersection.

He closes the front door and notices her looking out the window. The sunset is blinding and lights up the damp kitchen. He steps in front of her and is silhouetted from behind. She takes his face as he presents the same offer as before.

And she shakes her head.

He takes one of her hands and holds it out. He pulls her close and sways them from side to side.

"Lover, anything you wanna do."

-rae

*White Shoes--Conor Oberst

A Pattern Forms

Sometimes on nights like this--

when I've shut myself up in my dark room,

when my only company is Miles and Coltrane,

when I lie on my bed in my uncomfortably hot clothes,

when my eyes are grateful! for nothing to look at,

when my heartbeat slows,

though my mind finds some peace,

still,

I can't help wondering.

"Why do we care and invest and hurt all the time? Why do we do this to ourselves?" asked the tortoise, analyzing the sequence of events that led it here, now thinking them shamefully small.

The tortoise's creator knew that these things mattered to the tortoise--as trivial as they may seem to anyone else--and after a long moment, said,

"Because we can."

-rae

this is The Best i can do

Okay...okay. Write Something good. Just write Something.

Write Something.

Anything.

anything.

i think it was Bukowski that said it's bad to not write Something when you should, but it's worse to try and write Something when you can't.

Or maybe switch that.

My Mom has been GOading me to write, and it was finally enough when she texted:

"You need to post. It's been a month now. I need a fix. Do it now please."

The Thing is, i've really been meaning to write Something for a long time, but i've drained myself of all Brilliance in the past Month of Posts.

i'm coasting```' ' ' '''~~~~~~_~~~~and i'm hydro p l a n i n g .

i've learned an unfortunate Thing about myself: i rather like feeling Anger. i think it's because it's so there and present and...well, feelable. Unlike Numbness.

Not!!! like Apathy.

Mama, i'm sorry. But trying is much too much right now.

i'd like to assure you that it will be worth waiting until i can write Something of Value,

But 'Good [ [ [ somber] ] ] Evening, world.'

-rae