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03 August 2011 @ 05:08 pm
the second hand unwinds  
soaking myself in sage, sobbing out the commute. it's all white candles and black tourmaline from here on out.

i ache for a project, a creative investment, some means of artistic expression as a path through this two-mile deep rut i've stumbled into.

i ache for it. i have notions. tips of icebergs, assemblage concepts. all i need to do is find an accord in placement and then fix the matter into place. all i need to do is find an accord. somehow, it never comes together. i get overwhelmed, i get distracted. i can't find the time or the place. i don't write, i don't even read. iceberg tips. this frozen land. this place of ice. maybe i'm more frozen in this rut than fallen in?

thel leans out her window to get a better sight of the clamor on the street. the thick folds of her skirt rattle the bottles on the sill before she remembers them and presses her skirt clear with her palm. it isn't him, of course. it's never him. regardless, she keeps waiting.

i ache for a project
a creative investment
some way out of this

regardless, she waits still