Sunday, April 4, 2010
We are perfectly, blandly, devastatingly congenial.
If I told you that sometimes I sit alone in the dark & memorize the patterns on the wall made by headlights of passing cars, or that sometimes I try to write love-notes with my right hand just to see if I can. If I told you that I spend my Saturdays composing musical pieces that sound like falling stars no matter how carefully my lips form the notes. If I told you that sometimes I get nervous for silly reasons, & that all I can do is walk around my house, tapping my fingers & running my eyes over the familiar things as if they are my lifelines. If I told you that I am not what everyone thinks I should be, & that no one thinks I look my age. If I told you that I talk too little & write too much, & that this sounds poetic but really isn't. If I told you that i'm not what you thought I was, would you love me anyway?