froth & speculation

dear journal,

won't you be my favourite overgrown path? how i saw a tree through the forest, once? didn't we know a forest, once? i would go into, when i was lost. i would walk with sticks, slide between branches, grit my teeth, rubbish tangled in my hair?

sometimes, journal, i am trying to conjure a ghost of myself, and trap him in a glass vial. it's all for superficial reasons, journal. he's no better than i am, but i admire the things he can do. he seems to have epics and allegory and obscure tragedies bleeding from his fingertips. i know that he doesn't, but i can't help but conjure, and trap, and ask to tell. what we have in common, journal, is that we are both deluded, and we are both backwards-envious.

forests is the old-fashioned way for getting lost, journal. nobody's hip to it, anymore.

journal, it was 10:15 at night and the record had run out, and everything was eerily quiet, and allofasudden there was a softsoft buzz, and i got scared, but eventually i knew it was my voicemail, and it was a message that was 4 minutes of complete silence, and i am standing in the middle of my eerily quiet apartment, listening intently to a message that had nothing to say. i think i listen too much for things that will never have anything to say.

there are washes of the transverse, sometimes. won't you be my favourite overgrown transverse wash, journal?

be kind to me, and i will be asleep, to keep my shadows off of the walls. if i have to get up, i will turn off all of the lights, to keep my shadows off of the walls. just be kind to me, journal. i will be asleep, and i will try to dream of being your favourite overgrown ghost of myself.

allegory was unrecognizable, sipping a cappuccino in a fancy coffee shoppe on a Thursday evening, inside from wet sidewalks, outside from company and talk, his legs crossed at the knees, like a truue hipster, across the table from a girl named kara who drinks mint tea. it is almost all accidental. he speaks with a new vocabulary.

it is worth a trillion dollars.

when allegory leaves to go home, the sidewalks are still wet, the forests are still far away and absent of lost souls, everything decides to be in cities, everything decides to stop interacting with the unfamiliar, everything grits its teeth, rubbish tangled in its hair.

dear journal, every ghost was un-conjurable. the passed is past. only scraps and traces where the fingertips had been. soluble evidence in the solvent of transverse washes, winds and rain and forgetfulness and boredom and getting old and pouringpouring rain and torrential rain and getting old and forgetting and boredom and a trillion decibels of dissonance that gets more and more difficult to hear, and only beautiful in retrospect.

it is 10:51 PM.