2004-07-24
The Frigidness of Rusted Pipes and Swarming Rooftops
Whilst walking--fleeting moment--the clarity of an epiphany made obscure by hundreds of layers of emotion. The green sign of Main Street above Palm Avenue outside of the caf� window, and an Italian iced-coffee on the small table. The olive-skinned Italian guy--perfect--behind the counter keeps making eye-contact--blush--I look down at my notebook. Moments like these--rosebud glittery and filled with pure carefree and ephemeral enchantment--happen much too often.
I choose not to cross particular lines--taint the perfect image of things that could be but never will.
My iced-coffee looks delicious and attractive. Clear glass filled with perfect diamond-like ice-cubes over this clear and brownish liquid--bitter/sweet. A single glass sitting on a table. Wishing that I could capture all of these moments--myself sitting alone in caf�s with a San Pellegrino or coffee to the side.
But these moments, and the feelings which accompany them are idyllic. Boutiques and art galleries cover this place and blanket everything with their low-rising roofs. Summers are dry--barren streets with patches of grass--reminding me of rusted pipes. I know this--walking with my satchel--it feels immensely frigid outside of myself--much too scarred inside.
And tears some nights--dancing down--caressing the contours of your face. Emptiness despite being called beautiful so many times--despising that word, it�s almost an insult now.
Being here is like being trapped.