[oh yeah.]

[reenka]

My life is a constant game to learn the secret. And then when I learn the secret, I have to learn the secret again. And again. I look back to yesterday and think-- okay, I'd really gotten it then, but I'm not sure again today. Every new revelation feels like I'm touching the sky, and it's just another pipe dream, just another illusion. I sit there and watch the sky darken, and somehow it should all mean something, all of it together, because if it doesn't, I've got nothing to say. I'm just silent and pointless, not quite existing if I don't understand why. Why what doesn't matter, but as long as I've got an answer pulled from the air (or more likely from my ass), it's all good.

So I sit there and think, let me break it down again. The thing is-- you see, the thing is-- that it's all about the word(s). In the beginning was the world, and then came the word, and the word made you think it was all there was. It was so powerful it made itself into a mountain. The mountain wasn't a mountain anymore but the word that made it so. It's not about the rush of living, it's about the rush being strong enough to touch the words inside you. If you live hard enough, they will come, and then the silence will be banished. You will be free to bullshit, have fictional sex and influence people.

Reading Silvia's fic, even tiny snippets of it, makes me feel like I'm high. No, seriously, high as a kite. I look at the way she phrases things, and I don't care if I never read another smutfic for as long as I live, because what was I thinking? I was so dumb. It's not about Harry & Draco getting it on. It's about the words, oh the words, rubbing each other up and down until I scream.

Oliver stops it without blinking, dead on. His smile is wide and quiet.

No, seriously. I mean. Seriously. And Julad's latest Brian/Justin, which I just-- yes (and she's been writing way too much brilliant B/J lately for my peace of mind). I forget what's important to me, surrounded by all the not-enough and the oh-my-god-not-this and the god-you're-on-the-wrong-type-of-crack-man. Sigh. And then I remember what it feels like, when it's not the sex in reading, it's that reading is sex. Those paltry imitations of real intoxication, oh I don't need them baby. Oh, I don't need them. That fake high because the well's run dry, who the hell needs it. Trying to talk like you're supposed to walk, and you forget they -can-, and you forget you -have-, and you forget that all that's necessary is the right rhythm and you don't need no fucking cigarette.

Comments

[yourpoison.livejournal.com]

heeeee. poetry: it's not my anti-drug-- it's my drug, man >:D