Post by Sparks on Jan 19, 2005 13:39:01 GMT -8
The place where you are balancing on the edge – that’s where I spend the hours of my life.
Time trickles through the hourglass beside me and it hurts just enough to make me want to fall. The edge is demanding. Our lives are all so steep that sometimes we forget what the edge does to us.
The edge is where I live. Where you don’t know exactly which side you should lean towards, so you hold your weight in the centre and pray for something on one of the two sides to go wrong. You pray for anything to give you an excuse to tip.
Balancing on the brink is the painless part. The not knowing whether you’ll be standing there in two weeks or two months is the part that breaks you down.
You can always look to your right and see the sun setting in the east, but it’s never really more than a mirror of the West that you are never going to get back. Every time you turn your head you miss something on your other side. It’s inevitable.
It is when a Plan misfires. Like a gun. You hold it for a second and before you know it you’re down one bullet. Maybe it was the bullet laced with cyanide. Maybe it was the blank.
I was never that great at keeping my balance. You knew it. We both did. You even told me, before I got up, that you’d be the first one to come back and knock me down.
Your mouth was moving like this.
"I'll be back for you, I promise."
When neither side seems like a safe side, it’s a whole different game. It’s a game of poker with a hand of blank cards. It’s a dice roll with a cube of empty faces. It’s a blind attack on the deaf attacker while he’s waiting in a dark in a room with soundproof walls, and he’s ready for you to come, so attack.
Why don’t you ever attack? I get the feeling you’re too good for me. No one needs to say it. I know it’s the truth.
I don’t know why I’m still hanging on with my perfect weight, the even structure of every sentence and every syllable that you used to make, lingering in my ears. I hold onto these bland, pointless memories. I don’t know what I’m thinking when I see your face in the back of my mind, because you always had that way. Somehow, I could never find the words to say, and when I did, it was always too late.
You numb me and you don’t even know I’m balancing myself like this.
I don’t know which way to go.
I’d lose hope, but I don’t remember how.
I ignored the stop signs and smashed the street lights. I ran over the road blocks and broke off the rearview. It was a game, a one-two, one-two that I should have been smart enough to see coming from point A.
Sometimes I think I can divide myself to keep the deck below my feet. Slide the two identical halves of my body apart, and fall away like the ashes of a brave family member, scattered in a dry riverbed.
Waiting.
Sometimes it’s all I can do to keep myself on the edge.
Time trickles through the hourglass beside me and it hurts just enough to make me want to fall. The edge is demanding. Our lives are all so steep that sometimes we forget what the edge does to us.
The edge is where I live. Where you don’t know exactly which side you should lean towards, so you hold your weight in the centre and pray for something on one of the two sides to go wrong. You pray for anything to give you an excuse to tip.
Balancing on the brink is the painless part. The not knowing whether you’ll be standing there in two weeks or two months is the part that breaks you down.
You can always look to your right and see the sun setting in the east, but it’s never really more than a mirror of the West that you are never going to get back. Every time you turn your head you miss something on your other side. It’s inevitable.
It is when a Plan misfires. Like a gun. You hold it for a second and before you know it you’re down one bullet. Maybe it was the bullet laced with cyanide. Maybe it was the blank.
I was never that great at keeping my balance. You knew it. We both did. You even told me, before I got up, that you’d be the first one to come back and knock me down.
Your mouth was moving like this.
"I'll be back for you, I promise."
When neither side seems like a safe side, it’s a whole different game. It’s a game of poker with a hand of blank cards. It’s a dice roll with a cube of empty faces. It’s a blind attack on the deaf attacker while he’s waiting in a dark in a room with soundproof walls, and he’s ready for you to come, so attack.
Why don’t you ever attack? I get the feeling you’re too good for me. No one needs to say it. I know it’s the truth.
I don’t know why I’m still hanging on with my perfect weight, the even structure of every sentence and every syllable that you used to make, lingering in my ears. I hold onto these bland, pointless memories. I don’t know what I’m thinking when I see your face in the back of my mind, because you always had that way. Somehow, I could never find the words to say, and when I did, it was always too late.
You numb me and you don’t even know I’m balancing myself like this.
I don’t know which way to go.
I’d lose hope, but I don’t remember how.
I ignored the stop signs and smashed the street lights. I ran over the road blocks and broke off the rearview. It was a game, a one-two, one-two that I should have been smart enough to see coming from point A.
Sometimes I think I can divide myself to keep the deck below my feet. Slide the two identical halves of my body apart, and fall away like the ashes of a brave family member, scattered in a dry riverbed.
Waiting.
Sometimes it’s all I can do to keep myself on the edge.
