literature

Letter to Self

Deviation Actions

Published: Jun 5, 2011

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Literature Text

_{You're sick from reading too much literature, fat from the words contained in your thrumming veins. You're unsatisfied as of yet, and it's not anyone else's turn to tell you why. Not now. Your tiredness is beginning to weigh on your shoulders. You want water lanterns in the shining dark. Your hair is short, certainly, but not stark enough to startle yourself into pleasure. You need more typewriter ribbons. You need more clothes. You need sleep.

There are black strips hanging from your ceiling and a coin in currency you can't even use lying on your bedside table. There is a thirty-seven stanza poem waiting to be copied out onto rented-for-nothing-walls. There is a silent shut door, faint murmurings from women below, crumpled sheets. There is sweat.

There is the feeling that something right is being done, and it passes.

You have bruises on your pale knee from political compromise. You have tangential reasons for everything you do. You have a siren for a sometimes-friend that you insist on screwing up because you know you love her. You have a cough waiting in your throat like an understudy hovering in the wings of a theatre, aware that he's not needed but still unwilling to give in to admonishing whispers. You have missing claw-marks on your cheeks and forearms. They're not there.

You have missing shock, missing efficiency, missing race, a missing father, missing money, missing delight, missing steel. You're missing something to sink your fingers into. You're missing a final laugh. You have more music than you know what to do with. You have shadows under your eyes. You have a room, and books. You have half-smiles of your own.

You haven't really got anything. That's fine by me.}