2004-01-18

sleep

There is a very quaint bridge that I pass everyday on my way home from school. The trees loom over that stretch of road, and a small stream runs under the bridge, and over the rocks. During the summer and the spring, the leaves are green, and the sun shines through the gaps left by the falling leaves. During winter, the dried twings look like frail fingers. At times, I stop and think and look at the stream. I dropped a few leaves in there once and made a wish--"I wish that Roger and I could be together."--the wish never came true.

I ask myself sometimes, "What if trees could talk?"

Would they tell of everything that they have seen these past years? They just stand there, looking down on me, and they whisper whenever the wind swirls by. I think that the wind is the voice that they don't have. I stalk through the forest to find peace and to think, and to attempt to find myself once more--the person whom I don't know. In this entry, I want to say everything that I have been afraid to say. Expressing the very depths of my soul is shameful to me, because the feelings that I have are the same ones that I have been fighting against all of these years. Ultimately, I must yield and confess everything to myself.

I have sat here patiently for the past three years waiting for a quixotic Romeo to come and take me, but he hasn't shown up. I fear that he will never show, and that I will be stranded in my palace of loneliness. The guy from my story is me--trapped in a world of glass and death, cold and misery, hope within despair. I don't crave love, I crave heartbreak. I crave piercing agony so that I may have something to feel noble about. I want the uncontrollable sobs to consume me once more, and for my face to dampen with the hot and bitter tears. I want someone to come and to lacerate my heart so that it will fail to pulse in all its frailty.

Shake your fists at the gods Libet, but you know that you enjoy torment. Let your soul bleed pain, and let your spirit weary itself from experience. You will have wisks of gray, and lines cutting through the leather skin around your eyes. Smile and look back, and you will see nothing--what you wanted, really.

Sleep, and let him come and kiss your velvet lips so that you may open your pearl eyes and see him. Craving to be the soft powder on the wings of a dove, alas, I am but the sharp glass lying on the cobblestone path--abandoned and dangerous. A carpet will come and take me away, so that I may sleep for a thousand years, and when I wake, I will trample through the cool stream waters barefoot. Life is ending, and when it ends--

aeka at 9:42 p.m.