No one knows where the words come from and if someone tells you that they do, they're lying.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Take I Wrote This For You with you in limited hardback, while stocks last.
While stocks last.
In hardcover, while stocks last.
I need you to understand something. I wrote this for you. I wrote this for you and only you. Everyone else who reads it, doesn’t get it. They may think they get it, but they don’t. This is the sign you’ve been looking for. You were meant to read these words.
The Story Behind Everything
"Every word, every picture."
Take I Wrote This For You with you in limited hardback, while stocks last.
"What if one conversation could change your life, forever?"
While stocks last.
Links
Posts
pleasefindthis at gmail dot com.
The Library
Blog Archive
-
▼
2010
(189)
-
▼
June
(21)
- The Speed Of Feeling
- The Flowers Of 3753 Cruithne
- The Messenger Was Dead When I Got Here
- The Place Sentences Go To Die
- The End Of Nothing Really Important
- The Things Sold By The Sea Shore
- The Refracted Night
- The Paint Hides The Brick
- The Shell Against Your Ear
- The Reminders In The Sky
- The World Is Too Big
- The Seraphim And The Pirate
- The Taking Of Turns
- The Anthems For People (Not Places)
- The Ghost Farm
- The Tracks Go On Forever
- The Ratio Of Life To Living
- The List Of Changes
- The Universe Is Arrogant
- The Pattern Is A System Is A Maze
- The Arctic Dream
-
▼
June
(21)
"Take I Wrote This For You, wherever you go."
In hardcover, while stocks last.
6 comments:
Words don`t come from. They have always been.
Final Edit
The final words of the creaky senile sentence, as it faded into non-existence out of blurry old 12-point Roman print, as the back cover closed for the last time, were an attempt at perverse conjugation.
The eternal Editor was not well pleased. She sentenced the sentence to eternal edition, sending it to recycle endlessly with neologisms, newspaper headlines, copy from Viagra ads, and the profane writings of Mark Twain.
I guess this one is for people who copy your thoughts.
Liar.
It’s the inside pull
the same familiar visceral need for expression
and compassion
this intrinsic magnetization
to help
to sift through
to lift
to touch
to reach
to hold
(her,
and only her)
It comes from the dissonance you perceive
in relation to how completely you love her,
and how sometimes,
she will just look away,
so casually
so carelessly
In a moment, where you were
So open
So willing
So connected
And there are these
miles and miles
of empty air space
where you will never be able to
just. quite. say.
exactly what she means
to you
But the truth is,
(the truth, my dearest)
is those words have always been on that paper
I once believed that just by saying something it became a lie, but I guess it can't be true now. The truth can't be said, but the right words can make a difference even if there not exactly true.
I thought I knew where the words came from... but I am not in control anymore. Coming, going, or dying before fully formed... It's out of my power. The truth lies somewhere between.
Post a Comment