His entrance à cheval suggested a certain familiarity with romance novels. Had he also donned a blonde wig and clutched a tub of butter-alternative, his beloved would have likely fled his overzealousness; but today love drew her forward. Twelve suns would rise and fall before the mounted hopeless romantic would learn that his equine companion had, in that moment, usurped the heart of the only woman he would ever love.
Oblivious to the slate tearing into her bare feet with each step, she sought him à corps perdu along the entirety of the riverbank. Nearly an hour had passed since Chad jumped from the ragged cliff hundreds of feet above the rocky shore. His fragile body's pounding against the rocks during his descent had broken her spirit in the same way that she was sure it had broken his bones. The echoes of silence were her only companions, and she clung to them to avoid a reality she could not face.
tendency to remember an uncompleted rather than a completed task
George's inadequacies were largely imagined: he had graduated at the top of his class and was rapidly climbing the corporate ladder. Still, his zeigarnik accosted him at least once a day--transporting him back to a time years earlier when his nervous fingers had marred his first piano performance. While his parents had long forgotten the error--if they had even noticed it initially, George would never forgive himself for disrespecting Bach.
1. thepartofthehousein which thewomenandgirlsofafamilyaresecluded.
On those days the men insisted on planting themselves in front of the television and consuming immeasurable amounts of food from dishes they had no intention of cleaning, she dreamed of life in a zenana where testosterone only pervaded the premises briefly and for good reason. The men might have agreed with such an idea, had she revealed her thoughts to them.
is this the same as before?
the same torrential waterfall of heat and emotions?
nothing stopped me before
and i hopped on that horse and rode into a sunset that quickly rose to high noon.
i walked away from that duel back then, unconcerned about the outcome
but could it be that the bullet hit me and i've been bleeding ever since
and my subconscious maneuvering to staunch the flow
has led me down the same path?
I've been wanting to try some Dada poetry, but wasn't ready to completely give away control on this one. I wrote down words, cut up the pieces of paper and drew them out one at a time...but couldn't let go of the reins so ended up throwing scraps back into the pile when the words didn't please me. Maybe one day I'll do a true Dada poem, but in the meantime check out my first baby step toward the goal. (And yes, I realize I have more fonts than I need. Maybe a weekly Dada-esque piece will justify having downloaded all those typography packs...)
tired of being empty
watching the tank drain
and doing nothing to refill it
i can't complain
when i do nothing but complain
i cannot move
if i do not move my feet
i can only blame the external things for so long
before their forces crush my frame
where am i
in this undefined mush