Sunset: Loving who is dying inside.

The Dark Side Of The Moon

Yesterday I read a column in the Times about an online project that asks people to tell their life story in only six words. Hemingway style.
This is mine: Sunset: Loving who is dying inside.

you don't know what it's like he says and spits on the roof. his wary hand doesn't find the cigarette, stuck in the corner of his mouth, it went out, out like his eyes died just seconds ago and the lighter is just a faint replica of fires we once knew, faded memories...
all this, i have seen before and I don't have much time. The old brickstone building, with the mysterious redlit windows in the dark. The Japanese Restaurant I won't ever afford. The hills. The castle. The street. The dirt. The dizziness of life on the fast lane.
I swallow some tears, they are salty. Look away. Look back. His words tumble into the somber darkness like puppies that just learned to walk. I could feed them. Heed them. But I don't. Tonight I just listen. Hold his arms. His back. His heart.
I know that I don't know. At least that much. How can such a lucky person and such an unlucky person be so in love?
That's what I would like to know sometimes.

Later, on my old futon that I bought for twenty bucks from the creepy old Russian guy, I swayed back and forth between heart beats and heavy breathing.
You know nothing about what it's like to love someone who is dying inside.

dazed and confused

I admit that I'm still confused. That I still don't get it. I tried. Went there, not all the way but some of it. Fell in love with those who went. Blue comes to mind, by Joni Mitchell. She kind of puts it the way I felt.
But today in the morning I woke up with a cry in my throat with an urgent urge to bury my head in pillows and keep the blinds shut and just wallow in my confusion and sadness and mourn the foggy mysteries hidden beneath societies faces.
The beautiful melodies of the nearby church bells wafted through shut windows and blinds. His hands told me something his laughter his voice, but maybe I wanted words, explanations, empty rationalized figures drawn into the air between us.
Why is it 'normal'? I don't know life that way. Why do people need to drink and be dazed, why does it seem so normal to go and have a drink at a bar if you wanna go out and have fun?? My sister just tells me I can figure shit out only for myself. I guess so. But I just don't know life that way. I know it is akward to talk about it like that. I am not throwing stones. I am just really confused and sad. Sad because i don't understand and because obviously I think my way is a beautiful one. I guess I am not alone. Isn't that what the whole world keeps fighting about??

I doubt
I wonder
That there ever could be true understanding...Ever...




Blue, songs are like tattoos
You know Ive been to sea betore
Crown and anchor me
Or let me sail away
Hey blue, here is a song for you
Ink on a pin
Underneath the skin
An empty space to fill in
Well therere so many sinking now
Youve got to keep thinking
You can make it thru these waves
Acid, booze, and ass
Needles, guns, and grass
Lots of laughs, lots of laughs
Everybodys saying that hells the hippest way to go
Well I dont think so
But Im gonna take a look around it though
Blue, I love you

Blue, here is a shell for you
Inside youll hear a sigh
A foggy lullaby
There is your song from me