January 27, 2004 - 11:05 p.m.
JAN2604
It is the transformation that we are most invested in-
the unveiling of the monster
Hands, like feet, move too slowly in this weather
Numbing my brain
but not slowing the tears.
wind whipped
across my cheeks-
this is no longer an affair of love,
it is an affair
of some other kind-
perhaps survival, at its most bleak.
I am told- we need the other to know who "we" are.
I do- and this keeps me frozen
here.
Pages and doors locked,
the world has stopped
even my hands, but somehow, my heart is still there-
and breathing
salt smears my words
creeping up my legs
and the man in the wheelchair has none
he has been waiting for two hours for someone to come
He did not have the luxury of running snow-filled streets
to catch the train that sped
always faster than my feet,
faster than the minutes that are always gone
faster than i can say what it was that i needed to tell you
the words-
Wellesley Jarvis Yonge Bloor and west- now-
i am there
but you
are not.
the moving staircase flies
as my eyes watch you-
carried away
so i too will move
to find
the monster that fascinates us all
and i will remember
that i was not okay with this.
REsigned to a storm
outside myself-
this fallacy is pathetic
but so cold.
THe words move me, unleash me, yield me to the monster- so pretty
that is what we say of her,
and i wonder
if that is the only reason we can see her?
I can barely see
i feel
my eyes breaking more everyday
How do you know if your obssession is madness or just-
not quite madness?
Not quite there?
How much is too much?
How many questions will be too many?
how many compulsions?
Can you die from thinking too much
or just from letting those thoughts stop you-
cold.
