The person you might be can't speak to you, but you're ready to hear the unspoken words. In what isn't words you hear them, including what within words isn't word. In your own, too: the best thought is active sonar.
I'm liking all this novel-reading. Certain great stylists talk to your life less stupidly than you do. You hear your life talk back, are amazed that it can, then that you can understand it, then that life's been speaking to you. You start to say something back.
The air is dense with what we might fill it with. Not the surface of the air but the middle. That great weight in the middle of emptiness. All on us. Too much. That much on you you run crabwise seeking an end to the burden, hoping the pressure will fall on the place you just were.
The air united us just as much cold. But the warm air we're happy to share. Cold breaths are cones to outer space, seem like just you and all nothing. In the warm you're in something smaller and greater, where you don't know where it starts, what else it might encompass, where it's taking us.
Past a point you age more than a day per day, more than that each tomorrow. Life's a leap where you find you were only a handful of sand right as you start to come down, getting a faceful of you in the face. You know that you're you now - now it's you you leap from.
I've never told women to smile but the smiles of some are all of my memories. I hang from them, fall from their absence. Maybe I want them rare because I need them real. This is the value of blushing, how it's earnest as agony. A blushing woman's smile comes always just in time.
Sleep melts the world but the world's already melted - it's us that recongeal it on our waking way. Sleep knows better, so any sleep that makes it into waking instructs us effortlessly. The melt isn't pell-mell, but currents. Long, tangled weeds that share a tending.
I never know whether to knock barriers of sympathy down, what they might be holding up, out or in. I know I was once unaware how many are there. I don't think they're any weaker now I've mapped so many. They're just as electric to contact. But now, even joined up, they seem shorter. Perhaps it's me, that I've drifted above and a bit to the side.
What unifies us is weak, they say, what drives us apart violent, decisive. And they're right, they're always right. But who can remember decisions, and who stays with violence when something else offers. The weak thing pulls on, rain or shine. And what if instead we said gentle?