Liberacion De La Boca.
I have this bad taste in my mouth.
On the other hand it's rather wonderful. An array of sparks and flashes, invisible light bulb pieces sticking out the sides of my tongue, sharpening themselves on the edges of my gums. If we could snap Polaroids from the dark depths of our throats, would we? Would new words emit new techniques? Would streetwise slang become some new fad of bourgeois portrait snapping? Who knows, maybe I've developed some new science--or even better (and tax free), a religion.
Who's to say? Except from the mouth of some fibster, I can see no one else.
Or--maybe it could be this monstrous Pad Thai that happened to be stuck in the corner of my fridge. Oh, the fury that hath stricken across my guts. But the worst is the mouth. Worse than sharp glass, oh, is this crustaceous paste that used to be savory, burning goodness. But that was ages ago--more respectively, less than five days ago. Curse this thing called time.
But am I boring you? Have I made you age as well? Because I've realized that however eloquent one believes they age, things will always be the same. No matter how I grow--laterally, vertically, or flatulently--things will always be the same.
Change is scary. It always has been. Decisions are difficult. They always have been. It's an awful feeling that I've wrapped myself in this entire semester because I'm such a stalwart when it comes to these things. I sit like a rock and glue my edges to the carpet, immovable by the forces, whether it be the fire ant, the erratic roommate, or the churning pain of hunger. Well, maybe scratch those last two.
Well, if I knew it would end like this. I knew from the beginning. I'll never quite have an answer until I get there, whenever that will be. But for now, if you'll excuse me, there is an awfully sensational taste in my mouth, a disgustingly sharp pain in my side, and a lot of old Pad Thai ready to be liberated.
On the other hand it's rather wonderful. An array of sparks and flashes, invisible light bulb pieces sticking out the sides of my tongue, sharpening themselves on the edges of my gums. If we could snap Polaroids from the dark depths of our throats, would we? Would new words emit new techniques? Would streetwise slang become some new fad of bourgeois portrait snapping? Who knows, maybe I've developed some new science--or even better (and tax free), a religion.
Who's to say? Except from the mouth of some fibster, I can see no one else.
Or--maybe it could be this monstrous Pad Thai that happened to be stuck in the corner of my fridge. Oh, the fury that hath stricken across my guts. But the worst is the mouth. Worse than sharp glass, oh, is this crustaceous paste that used to be savory, burning goodness. But that was ages ago--more respectively, less than five days ago. Curse this thing called time.
But am I boring you? Have I made you age as well? Because I've realized that however eloquent one believes they age, things will always be the same. No matter how I grow--laterally, vertically, or flatulently--things will always be the same.
Change is scary. It always has been. Decisions are difficult. They always have been. It's an awful feeling that I've wrapped myself in this entire semester because I'm such a stalwart when it comes to these things. I sit like a rock and glue my edges to the carpet, immovable by the forces, whether it be the fire ant, the erratic roommate, or the churning pain of hunger. Well, maybe scratch those last two.
Well, if I knew it would end like this. I knew from the beginning. I'll never quite have an answer until I get there, whenever that will be. But for now, if you'll excuse me, there is an awfully sensational taste in my mouth, a disgustingly sharp pain in my side, and a lot of old Pad Thai ready to be liberated.
posted by Henry at 12:13 PM
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