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thenowhere's meme. Installment 6: For <user sit
Sep. 22nd, 2004 10:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wolven7Continuation of This Meme. I.. don't know that this comes close, but here it is.
I've always seen you, and your kind (for there are others like you, not exactly, but of a type) as the deadly, thorny bright thing, in the shadows. The dark, wild rose in the abandoned lot, in the centre of town. You are the thing that essentialises, crystalises tragedy, in the minds of poets. The ones who make tragedy what it is: sadness and beauty, or maybe that's backwards. Maybe it's beautiful, and that's what makes it so sad... To watch it wither, to watch it strive for that strangle hold on life, but with so much protection it refuses to move. To be moved. Inside or out.
There are many like you, but none quite like you. It's cliché, perhaps, or overstated, but you are unique, like everyone else. You are that spark of madness and domesticity, in the calm, reserved feminist. The theorist who remembers to regard the practical.
She walked by, in that strange passing of imagined scenarios, we make for ourselves, in this age. All contact is distanced, and all remarks are hidden behind the screen. But she hid, for a while, next to the wall, and watched, before she decided to bring forward, in curiosity. I watched and waited, and viewed the tragedy from enough of a distance to make it beautiful. The ephemerality of the situation (enforced, mind you, by the intangible barriers she set around herself) bent the lens, made it feel closer, than it really was. Road heat shimmer, though cold.
It made me think that, no matter how close, the tragedy would still hurt, and bring about that sad, beautiful smile. That love/hate relationship, with the bad things that make you feel good. Cerebral.
She smoked, with her eyes closed, most of the time, but when she had them open, there was a love, there, for the world she saw, and an anger, at what refused to change. But mostly, when her eyes were open, while she burned, there was pity.
©Damien Williams. All Rights Reserved.
I've always seen you, and your kind (for there are others like you, not exactly, but of a type) as the deadly, thorny bright thing, in the shadows. The dark, wild rose in the abandoned lot, in the centre of town. You are the thing that essentialises, crystalises tragedy, in the minds of poets. The ones who make tragedy what it is: sadness and beauty, or maybe that's backwards. Maybe it's beautiful, and that's what makes it so sad... To watch it wither, to watch it strive for that strangle hold on life, but with so much protection it refuses to move. To be moved. Inside or out.
There are many like you, but none quite like you. It's cliché, perhaps, or overstated, but you are unique, like everyone else. You are that spark of madness and domesticity, in the calm, reserved feminist. The theorist who remembers to regard the practical.
She walked by, in that strange passing of imagined scenarios, we make for ourselves, in this age. All contact is distanced, and all remarks are hidden behind the screen. But she hid, for a while, next to the wall, and watched, before she decided to bring forward, in curiosity. I watched and waited, and viewed the tragedy from enough of a distance to make it beautiful. The ephemerality of the situation (enforced, mind you, by the intangible barriers she set around herself) bent the lens, made it feel closer, than it really was. Road heat shimmer, though cold.
It made me think that, no matter how close, the tragedy would still hurt, and bring about that sad, beautiful smile. That love/hate relationship, with the bad things that make you feel good. Cerebral.
She smoked, with her eyes closed, most of the time, but when she had them open, there was a love, there, for the world she saw, and an anger, at what refused to change. But mostly, when her eyes were open, while she burned, there was pity.
©Damien Williams. All Rights Reserved.
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Date: 2004-09-22 07:50 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2004-09-22 07:52 pm (UTC)no subject