The person who records the geography and truth of your words: Stenographer? Or Cartographer?
Sat and bent double, with forearms on thighs. I stare at my upturned and open hands. An infinity of permutations; existing in the space between my eyes, and comprehension. I stare at my paperdoll again.
What is he made of?
Every answer is a coin of potential internal treachery. A trap, carefully armed against myself. How lovely-- and easy!-- it is to dress my cardboard shortcomings in finery.
Tenacity? No. Pig-headedness.
Fortitude? No. Masochism.
Originality? No. Oppression.
So I sit and spin my tiny cutout avatar. Flip flip flip. So fine, the space between one truth and the other; the breadth of but a single sheet of a cracked and browning page. Objectivity only comes in singular snippets, when the pins and needles in my motionless hands grow thick. It comes-- but only sometimes-- when the sting of acceptance resonates throughout my wrists as strongly as within my ego.
10:21 p.m. - 2014-12-01
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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