Deer Amaranth

keywords: unfinished, experimental, expired, extinct

In a forest with no mirror,
To the eyes of God none dearer,
Lives a lone fawn that fawns not.

Treading softly on the grass she’s
Crushed the rush and rushed the crushes,
Dreaming of her amaranth.

She knows not the rocks from flowers,
For amidst these early hours
She’s only been hit by one.

Her mind raced in thoughts confounded,
But despite heartthrobs unwanted,
Her step is again now calm.

Eyes dancing with joyous laughter,
She sings out her silent light that
Rocks and flowers like alike.

Looking high at heaven’s towers,
From afar she smells the flowers
Waiting to be kissed by one.

But my dear deer, not a flower
By its own will and its power
Ever leaves the land he loves.

They too wait for a desired
Brown-eyed fawn to quench their fire,
But alas they move cannot.

Thus Sisyphus’ sweet sweat showers
Brows of deer and crowns of flowers
In a world that’s wired weird.

Now the forest with no mirror
To the eyes of God none dearer
Witnesses the fawn’s first tear.

She will learn amid her hours
To dodge rocks and pluck the flowers
Till she finds her amaranth.

And the forest will behold her
Eyes of brown alone no longer
Grow old with her amaranth.

Behind the Scenes at the Museum

A genius quotation from Kate Atkinson’s book:

How can life be so sweet and so sad, all at the same time? How? Just out of my reach, there is understanding. Somewhere, just out of reach, hidden on a high shelf, under a floor board, there is a key. And what will the key open? Why, the Lost Property Cupboard, of course. The Lost Property Cupboard Theory of Life is a relatively recent development in my philosophical quest for understanding. It has come about, no doubt, because all this year, Kathleen and I have held the office of Lost Property Cupboard monitors, and every Thursday afternoon at four o’clock, we open up the Lost Property Cupboard. [...] This is my Lost Property Cupboard Theory of the Afterlife: When we die, we are taken to a great Lost Property Cupboard, where all the things we have ever lost are being kept for us. Every hair grip, every button and pencil, every tooth, every earring and key, every pin (think how many there must be!), all the library books, all the cats that never came back, all the coins, all the watches which will still be keeping time for us; and perhaps, too, the other less tangible things: tempers, and patience; perhaps Patricia’s virginity would be there; religion (Kathleen has lost hers); meaning, innocence (mine); and oceans of time. [...] On the lower shelf will be the dreams we forgot on waking, nestling against the days lost to melancholy thoughts. If they paid dividends, Patricia would be rich. And right down at the bottom of the cupboard, amongst the silk, and fluff, and feathers, the pencil shavings and hair swept up from hairdressers’ floors, that’s where you’ll find the lost memories. [...] Then perhaps we can sign our names and take them home with us.

(4-4, ~10:00, fix it when I lay my hands on the book.)

Crescendo

Am obosit să mă ascund după un zâmbet forţat toată ziua până mă dor obrajii.
Am obosit să ascult muzică de bocet, dar ce să fac dacă alta nu-mi place?
Am obosit să mă prefac că ştiu tot şi că n-am nevoie de aprobarea ta.
Am obosit să mă laşi să ghicesc şi să nu-mi zici dacă am dreptate.
Am obosit să mă târăsc dintr-o dezamăgire în următoarea.
Am obosit să cuprind aşternuturile în iluzia parfumului tău.
Am obosit să număr secundele până când voi adormi.
Am obosit să mă uit în oglindă şi să văd ochi înroşiţi.
Am obosit, orice aş face, să-mi pară că pierd timpul.
Am obosit să răscolesc în subteranele amintirilor.
Am obosit să aştept să se coaguleze sângele.
Am obosit să ascult “Lux Aeterna” pe repeat.
Am obosit să-mi spun că e stupid să invidiez.
Am obosit să descifrez reflecţii în oglinzi.
Am obosit să mă gândesc de două ori.
Am obosit să fiu politicos şi rezonabil.
Am obosit să mă prefac că mi-e bine.
Am obosit să-mi spun că “mai târziu.”
Am obosit să tac când vreau să urlu.
Am obosit să tot apăs Backspace.
Am obosit de propria-mi colivie.
Am obosit să trăiesc prin cărţi.
Am obosit să mă răzgândesc.
Am obosit să vreau să cred.
Am obosit să caut motive.
Am obosit să mă trezesc.
Am obosit să gândesc!
Am obosit să tremur.
Am obosit să aştept.
Am obosit să dorm.
Am obosit să visez.
Am obosit să caut.
Am obosit să simt.
Am obosit să fiu.
Am obosit.

(not to be continued)

(şi ştiu că nu toată lumea are aceleaşi fonturi.)