Misshapen Identity in Always Recovering, Never Recovered.
- March 17, 2015, 9:43 a.m.
- |
- Public
Shaking palms pressed to steamed-mirror mists, trying to trace the outlines of an echo; trying to feign acceptance of this body I don’t know.
The reflected form of a foreigner, reminiscent but different; all the contours confused and completion deferred, the lines no longer lucid, the edges all blurred. Your linear rules and perfect verse, dismissed, dismantled and dispersed; I’m in a new role, unrehearsed. I don’t know how to be this version, this new and unfamiliar person.
My world distorted and inverted, all my truths upturned, perverted; you have been, through everything, the scaffolding to which I cling, and the scaffold from which I hang. Without your foundations I’m question-mark quicksand; unsecured, insecure and unsure.
You made me in your image, whittled away by your ruinous whispers, hollowed out in your honour; your face stapled over the blank unformed scarscape of mine. Now, inch by inch in slow degrees, reality is stealing me and almost imperceptibly, I’m becoming a solidity, a weighted earthen entity. This foetus-faced facsimile, this vague familiarity; she doesn’t look or feel like me, I’m losing my identity, because half of me is you.
The empty husks of the only self I recognise, the weightless one with you inside, drift distant on the winds; just spherical puffs of dandelion-fluff, fractal-floss flotsam floating free, embers of a fading fire. My fingers itch to catch them, trap them, cup palms and clap them, snare them like fireflies; keep them close. Pull off their little lacework wings and swallow their tiny gaslight bodies like morphine pills; keep you inside me, keep us safe. You were the beginning and end of my world, everything was about you; despite myself I’m terrified, I don’t know who I am without you.
Is it truly possible, given time, to rebuild, regroup and redefine; to ride this shifting paradigm, and accept this foreign face as mine?
LoveSuicide ⋅ March 19, 2015
Well, I certainly immediately marvel at your prowess of bending words.
Then there is the inevitable analysis of picking apart the structure and the phrase and the placement and trying to unscrawl the meaning.
You say so much without ever saying it outright.
That's not true. You have it plain as day, but it's in a code. Your code. The way you speak on the inside.
How many layers must one unravel?
I'm curious about it all, but I won't bother you anymore about it just yet.
Let it percolate.
Waiting For Sunrise LoveSuicide ⋅ March 21, 2015
Thank you... I love the way you look at this. Sometimes I do wonder whether what I write makes sense to others; it tends to be steeped in feelings, not facts, and without the key to the code I suspect it is somewhat shrouded in opacity. That this is my inner language is a lovely way of explaining it :)
LoveSuicide Waiting For Sunrise ⋅ March 22, 2015
Indeed, your inner language is very much a confluence of laying it all out there and the fine line of walking up to and not crossing over the line of saying too much.. instead you stop just short and you're almost like has she said enough?
It's certainly something that resonates.