lies and half truths
Somewhere there's a bowl of steel crying out to be fed and all it gets is feathers. It had a heart once. It had three but they're gone now: one broken, one eaten, one lost.
My own reflection, my own thoughts, my own fears and dreams fill the air and I can't help but gasp for a breath of air uncoloured by their haze. No one makes you sad, you make you sad. No one makes you sad unless you let them. If you notice and you let them you must want to be sad.
setting a date for withdrawal of our troops is setting a date for failure...
I think of elderly ladies remarking on those who march to the beat of a different drum as though it were a pleasant privilege that people with no responsibilities, or perhaps morals, get to have. I was gliding through a comic again, and was struck by the beauty of the face given to an old whore. She was drawn all bone and skin and crinkles and her eyes were somewhere else; it's the thing that makes me think of the old men who I'd talk to for hours just to hear their stories if I had the nerve. We try to run from it mostly, women, girls forever, paint and surgery and horror of wrinkles and white hairs. And yet it's power, age, when you accept it, and maybe no one will listen to your stories, but they're there, in every line and hollow and useless flap of skin.
I'm growing up, finally! I thought, immediately wondering how soon I'd realize otherwise and laughing at myself a little.
I worry about the people who won't worry about me, too. I suppose it might be genetic or inherited, in a way, though that doesn't mean I won't fight it. I convince myself I worry because I want to comfort, and maybe that's half true? I convince myself I don't care, and I'm fairly certain that's not true. I convince myself that it doesn't matter, really, and maybe I should become what I criticize, screaming, so quietly.
I realize I need to change my own behaviour first, which is certainly easier said than done.