Creases and Cornfields.
There was a cornfield here last year. It grew very tall and green and stocky. I never saw a scarecrow, but if I did I would certainly take a picture of it. An old man tended to his corn and was older than the age that his creases recommended him to be. I waved at him once, but either he was too busy to see me or his squinted eyes dealt none a task like that anymore-- to see a boy far away, waving.
This year there was no cornfield. There were no tall, stocky, olive skinned stalks. There was no invisible scarecrow nor was there a creased, worn man. Maybe time had folded him away, just like how the seasons had bent those stalks over to be recycled in such a world where the dirt is inherited while the sky is nothing less than inevitable. Maybe if I squinted hard enough, I could make him out--somewhere in blue turning clouds or in the dirty earth dirt. But I guess I'm too busy. Or too lazy.
As time slips by we can't help but age. Time slaps us as hard as it possibly can, yet we fail to notice. As a newborn we are so fragile that we cry and cry when we leave our mama's warm belly, longing for her to hold us away from its brash, pleating hurt. But we learn. You grow callous and you feel less and less until you're numb to what is constantly surrounding you. Time is so important and yet some become ignorant enough to just let it slip away. Because we're too lazy or busy or horny or drunk or lonely or manic or just because we're so goddamn numb that our own eyes glaze straight over. We can't let that happen. Not now.
But how can we feel accomplished? It's this burden that drove me to near insanity during these past idle and quiet 77 days. How can we feel that we've done anything important or relevant when we're so young and senseless? We see the world as a completely different entity than how we did just 4 years departed and will soon fancy a giddy smirk at our shortcomings of today in the impending 4 years. And to be responsively honest, I can't tell you your answers or what my friends should do. I can't say how we'll save ourselves and I can't say how anyone else will save you. All I know how to do is flash a fancy smirk at these past four years and hold that smile until I feel savvy.
I've met too many people to feel enraptured in something I cannot control. I've told too many stories to feel empty and boring. It's all there in front of me. But I can't see it. I guess like how I can't see time. But now I know it's there, slapping me in the face and yelling at me to scream back and throw my furniture and burn the grass and run amuck naked and kiss every pretty girl I think I've fallen in love with. I won't be able to help myself. Because I can't waste time. Only through the act of wasting my own time here in this simple apartment have I realized this. Only when time became so thick and rough that it peeled me back into nothing but flesh and nerves that pinched and ached and tangled until I couldn't bite on the wood anymore, only then did that glaze sink away. I can't wait until my skin creases over and when I can't see you anymore. I know I'll come back to this frame of thought in 4 years and have a hoot. But for the time being, it works for me-- and that's all I see.
This year there was no cornfield. There were no tall, stocky, olive skinned stalks. There was no invisible scarecrow nor was there a creased, worn man. Maybe time had folded him away, just like how the seasons had bent those stalks over to be recycled in such a world where the dirt is inherited while the sky is nothing less than inevitable. Maybe if I squinted hard enough, I could make him out--somewhere in blue turning clouds or in the dirty earth dirt. But I guess I'm too busy. Or too lazy.
As time slips by we can't help but age. Time slaps us as hard as it possibly can, yet we fail to notice. As a newborn we are so fragile that we cry and cry when we leave our mama's warm belly, longing for her to hold us away from its brash, pleating hurt. But we learn. You grow callous and you feel less and less until you're numb to what is constantly surrounding you. Time is so important and yet some become ignorant enough to just let it slip away. Because we're too lazy or busy or horny or drunk or lonely or manic or just because we're so goddamn numb that our own eyes glaze straight over. We can't let that happen. Not now.
But how can we feel accomplished? It's this burden that drove me to near insanity during these past idle and quiet 77 days. How can we feel that we've done anything important or relevant when we're so young and senseless? We see the world as a completely different entity than how we did just 4 years departed and will soon fancy a giddy smirk at our shortcomings of today in the impending 4 years. And to be responsively honest, I can't tell you your answers or what my friends should do. I can't say how we'll save ourselves and I can't say how anyone else will save you. All I know how to do is flash a fancy smirk at these past four years and hold that smile until I feel savvy.
I've met too many people to feel enraptured in something I cannot control. I've told too many stories to feel empty and boring. It's all there in front of me. But I can't see it. I guess like how I can't see time. But now I know it's there, slapping me in the face and yelling at me to scream back and throw my furniture and burn the grass and run amuck naked and kiss every pretty girl I think I've fallen in love with. I won't be able to help myself. Because I can't waste time. Only through the act of wasting my own time here in this simple apartment have I realized this. Only when time became so thick and rough that it peeled me back into nothing but flesh and nerves that pinched and ached and tangled until I couldn't bite on the wood anymore, only then did that glaze sink away. I can't wait until my skin creases over and when I can't see you anymore. I know I'll come back to this frame of thought in 4 years and have a hoot. But for the time being, it works for me-- and that's all I see.
posted by Henry at 9:50 PM
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