notes to the never year old self

  

2am Violets, originally uploaded by nezua.

what has the internet done to my writing. once i wrote in spiral notebooks. the letters spoke of the day and the mood with the density of the ink or the height of the letters or the uppercase slant or the drawings i’d sketch.

sit, quiet, writing. open the window, sip the tea. write.

a time to note the time, to speak the truth, to ask questions…and then close the cover and leave the marks there, pressed in dust, smells of paper and ink and inbetweens and
waiting notwaiting
       (to be)
                 o p e n
                            ed
        again.

it was a private thing. it was an unselfconscious and beautiful thing. thoughts had room to become naked. or to explode entirely, to snow down like dust or black bullets of coal being loosed from a heaving orange sky—words
did
not
exist to be pawed over
pecked over
parsed and pried apart and pornographically paraded exclaimed upon loved and hated by so many all so quickly and so didnt lean and upright gleam and yearn and whine and boast and keen

they simply were

there. withyou

in a sense
we’ve gained the worst of two worlds
in our joining of diaries and public periodicals

[if blogging has replaced a private journal]

we’ve lost the freedom of private writing
and gained an illusion of truthful documentation

and what will i have in ten years of these words?

these posts are not truth. they are not even true. they are conversation. they are angles of me i’m presenting to you they are honest quite often and yet fully dressed before they are born blue

which is fine sometimes. i don’t hate it or wish it dead or gone.

but i miss that cat who came out for spiral notebooks. that person who let out his gut. who did not even need to breathe deep to relieve because there was no one to impress, convince seduce deceive

i’ll have to go and rouse him
i need to know what he knows

i lied in the dark tonight under my fan
i seemed to grow wider awake
the night was as if a giant flower above me
hanging over me breathing into me
and i wanted never to sleep again

only to be in this infinite three am space
hot lemon tea on my tongue
a world falling further away
the sun turning under me
and a clock moving backward
soon to chime a number
that will tomorrow
no longer exist