137 lines
5.1 KiB
Plaintext
137 lines
5.1 KiB
Plaintext
"I want you so bad it's driving me mad it's driving me mad
|
|
She's so"
|
|
|
|
...heavy...
|
|
by the Silver Ghost
|
|
|
|
|
|
[4]
|
|
|
|
Apply every known cliche.
|
|
I loved her from first sight. It's like I've known her all my life. She's
|
|
all I need to be complete. She's been meant for me all my life. I loved her
|
|
from first sight. It's like I've known her all my life. She's all I need
|
|
|
|
|
|
She laughs. It's not feminine, I admit, or particularly pleasing, I admit.
|
|
It's approaching obnoxious but it's not quite there. But there's something
|
|
about it, it's honest somehow: she laughs because she is moved to laugh, not
|
|
because she wants to impress with her feminine laugh.
|
|
Jesus, enough hype already. Off the damn subject.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Why does the trip
|
|
home always seem shorter
|
|
than the trip there?
|
|
I'm missing a line.
|
|
|
|
|
|
After a while, emotions become baggage, and not very useful baggage, at
|
|
that. Working out problems becomes an exercise in cautiously opening other
|
|
people's luggage, letting them peer inside yours, suggesting that they examine
|
|
closely one of your articles of clothing, or carefully examining one of
|
|
theirs. Lifting up a towel, studying the hairbrush underneath it, all done
|
|
gracefully and carefully, in slowfantastic pantomime. And then she peels away
|
|
the wrong towel, catches a glimpse of an Unmentionable, and in a frenzy you
|
|
become a gorilla, senselessly emptying your suitcase onto the ground whilst
|
|
gnashing your teeth and throwing things around.
|
|
Better analogies must exist.
|
|
|
|
|
|
[3]
|
|
|
|
After talking for a while, I return to my room, feeling like I've imposed
|
|
upon her time. I've imposed on her time so many times before that it doesn't
|
|
really matter anymore, and I refuse to pay attention to the thought, reasoning
|
|
that it doesn't really matter anymore. I've got homework to do anyway, so in
|
|
a sense I was imposing on my time too, which makes it all right I think.
|
|
The homework's my calculus, which is okay except I can't remember how to
|
|
begin, which makes it more difficult. I have to calculate the area under the
|
|
curve "x^2 + y^2 = 1^2", which I can't do because I don't know how far to
|
|
integrate it, or how to make the equation in delta-something. It has to be in
|
|
delta-something form, with an eff-of-eks, or it can't be done.
|
|
I collar a friend, who's also working on the same problem, and we go out
|
|
into the Quad to play frisbee. It's mid-November, and very cold, but it seems
|
|
to be getting warmer. We throw the frisbee violently, and shout calculus
|
|
insights to each other, and after a while go back inside.
|
|
|
|
|
|
So, my friend,
|
|
where do we
|
|
go from here?
|
|
|
|
|
|
It's 8:58, two minutes before my first class, and my homework isn't done.
|
|
I look around the room, hoping for stimulation, avoiding my homework. There
|
|
really must be something work doing here, but all that's left is a crate full
|
|
of half-read novels, and I can't bear the thought of starting them.
|
|
|
|
|
|
[2]
|
|
|
|
|
|
Lucky I can't read what I wrote, or I'd be very angry with myself. What a
|
|
useless waste of a mind, and what a pitiful treatment of a life.
|
|
Lucky I don't want to read what I wrote, or I'd be cooped up inside instead
|
|
of out here. Snow frosts over the ground, and the Quad is so damn beautiful
|
|
it hurts to think about.
|
|
|
|
|
|
No worries
|
|
No words
|
|
|
|
|
|
[1]
|
|
|
|
|
|
( )!
|
|
|
|
|
|
[2]
|
|
|
|
|
|
She's so beautiful, so unbelievably beautiful. I can't believe I haven't
|
|
told her so...I don't know why I haven't been following her around like a
|
|
puppy dog like I usually do.
|
|
What the hell, I'll let her know. She has a right to know, and what's the
|
|
worst thing she could do?
|
|
|
|
|
|
Two relationships:
|
|
Nebulous and Clinical
|
|
|
|
|
|
[3]
|
|
|
|
|
|
Talking over words, minute words, unimportant tossed-off words. God-damned
|
|
stupid formal discussion structure, can't even open her fucking handbag
|
|
without asking permission ten different ways, and then have to thank her ten
|
|
times and proceed. One good car accident and we'd avoid all this emotional
|
|
shit, wouldn't have to spend my valuable time pussyfooting around, could be
|
|
So, dear God, why does it feel like I just got hit in the stomach? I've
|
|
always known that I'll always be alone, but I never really knew it until now,
|
|
and now it hurts so badly I can't bear it. It's 9:48, two minutes before
|
|
class gets out, and I'm still in this damn room looking for something to read.
|
|
I never knew anything could hurt so much--just when I let myself relax, I
|
|
see how fragile is this glass tower I'm standing on. It's so easy to lean
|
|
over the edge, see the ground so far down, and almost put just too much weight
|
|
on my toes. And when I know how it all ends, and when I've seen the ending
|
|
for so many years, it hardly seems as frightening anymore.
|
|
It's nine fifty-six.
|
|
|
|
|
|
In the depth
|
|
of depression lies
|
|
the greatest joy
|
|
|
|
|
|
There ain't no conclusion, babe, and it just ends, but who the hell had a
|
|
thesis statement anyway?
|
|
|
|
J.R.M.
|
|
- November, 1987
|
|
|
|
|
|
(>
|