(creation dates approximate)
march 28th 2007
I think it's true that there's nothing I have that is mine. Even the words I say came from someone else.
I have trouble saying these things; things that I can't draw out of the world around me.
It's what words I say. What things I translate. What words I give to another language.
So even if I go picking up the words and threads of the world around me, and they drag and rustle behind me, I think you'll understand. Even if I wrap myself in the likeness of another, or speak in a voice that isn't mine, in a language that isn't mine,
I think you'll understand.
For in the pieces of all this is the reflection of my voice that I can't hear from inside, because the form I take changes who I am, even to me. That's life, I guess.
So this is a letter to you, time-released and unreeled as I get farther away, instead of as I get closer.
1 comment:
disclaimer-
If you put all the pieces together, or even some of them, you could probably figure out where I was, where I am, and eventually, who I am, at least, my name. I imagine someone might try to do that.
But I don't really care that much, and that isn't the point of this, either. The names won't be there because really, they don't matter. Not like that, at least.
Post a Comment