A Pale Light to Weep For

They wheeled her out and I saw her. I looked into those deadening eyes and saw her. But did I see her? Or was that something else? Perhaps it was a ghost. Perhaps it wasnt her. Perhaps I had been mistaken. Perhaps she was waiting for me inside, beyond that living corpse. Yet she wore the same wrinkles. Yet she wore the same eyes. But those eyes couldnt have been her own. They were there, but they werent. They were lost within a cloudy arena. Those eyes were snapshots of what once was. Those eyes were despicably misleading. Why would they do this to me? Why would she do this to me? Why werent her eyes right? Why werent they like they used to be? Why was she staring at me like that? What was there to see? She couldnt see with those eyes. She couldnt be who she was with those eyes. She couldnt love with those eyes. And thats what it came down to, as it always has and always will. And I saw her. And I wept for the eternity of forgetful glaze that consumes us all. And I wept for myself. And I wept for everything else.

A guy

A tinfoil valentine

April 23, 2004

One day you’ll tell us all why your stories are all about loss right?

That’s depressing…I find you very interesting. You have my curiosity piqued.

That’s so sad. It actually reminds me of a scene at the end of Requiem for a Dream, where that one woman slowly walks out to meet her friends. At least, that’s what was playing through my head as I read that. I don’t know if you’ve seen that movie or not, and if so, then you probably know what I mean. Good story again. Short, but good. 🙂

perhaps she was just waiting for someone to understand her.. why she was the way she was.. why she was afraid of everyone.. including herself.. perhaps she didn’t mean to push you away.. she just didn’t know what else to do.. what to say.. how to put her pain into words.. perhaps she didn’t want to bother you.. she knew you had your own life.. your own pain..

and as much as she wanted to include you, the thought of pulling you down with her hurt her more than anything she had experienced in the past.. perhaps she used to pick up the phone and dial your number, but hang up before she dialed the last number.. perhaps she has a drawer full of letters that she never sent you..

perhaps she is still living inside herself thinking, “one day you will open your eyes and see me”.. ryn: you can hang out in my head anytime you want.. just be sure you bring a sleeping bag.. it can get pretty cold in there..

I hate it when everyone asks why its so easy for me to write about misery in my poetry rather than happiness.. isn’t the answer to that -might I say- ignorant question obvious? Because when you’re trapped inside a world full of redemption.. and dejection.. you know nothing of this feeling they call happy..

April 24, 2004

remember agotha’s note: A) I wasnt asking why his stories are soooo depressing, I was just interested in his reasoning for his common theme. People who are quick to call others ignorant often make ignorami of themselves. Now lets have some peace between noters shall we?