Saturday, June 27, 2009
Let me tell you about my hands
They all hurt. All 8 of them. Each with to knuckles crying for an ice pack to alleviate the throbbing pain of this morning’s consciousness. I hesitate on their dying plea and make fists, assessing the extent of which I felt like my life was over last night. The blood stains leading down my right palm to my pillow case prove that he was the one that questioned my ability to feel alive last night, but clearly after he could take no more punishment his brother stepped in to take the finals blows before I passed out awkwardly on my kitchen floor. It’s euphoric to feel the pain creep up my arms to my elbows. I learned a while back that it’s easier to make excuses for broken fingers than for cuts on legs that a just a little too straight. And besides, every bump every day reminds me that for some reason I still love you more than you will ever know. I think about writing the brick walls and wooden fences a thank you note and laugh. Thank you for all the times you have been there for me. Thank you for being strong when I am weak. Thank you for never breaking down on me. It makes me happy to know that all my life cement walls will be with me to pick me up when I’m down. Realizing my fingers have nearly convinced my eyes to cry, and my mouth to scream I wearily open my freezer door. I grab the bag of frozen peas and ice pack and feel relieved as they numb my knuckles back into nothing.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
why it doesnt matter whats in the glass
“He doesn’t love you.”
“Shocker.”
“Then why do you bother?”
She spun around on the stool and shrugged her shoulders. Her dispassionate eyes suited her apathetic tone. “Maybe I just do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She looked down the bar at an old man hunkered over a whiskey sour, staring hopelessly into it like he was search for something. “It’s better than nothing, that’s what it’s supposed to mean.”
“But it isn’t significant.”
“But it isn’t nothing.”
She grabbed her messenger bag and dropped a couple bills next to an empty glass, looking back down at it. “You know why that glass is empty?”
“Because it’s not half full.”
“Exactly. Something isn’t empty or half-full because it’s missing something. It’s that way because you drank it, which is better than watching it sit there staring back at you. It doesn’t matter what it’s half of if you never drink it.”
“I see.”
“No you don’t.” She said, grabbing a tattered brown jacket. “But maybe someday you will.”
Then she sauntered freely out of the bar. But that lack of weight on her shoulders was also because she had nothing to weigh her down. I didn’t know whether to pity her or applaud her.
“Shocker.”
“Then why do you bother?”
She spun around on the stool and shrugged her shoulders. Her dispassionate eyes suited her apathetic tone. “Maybe I just do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She looked down the bar at an old man hunkered over a whiskey sour, staring hopelessly into it like he was search for something. “It’s better than nothing, that’s what it’s supposed to mean.”
“But it isn’t significant.”
“But it isn’t nothing.”
She grabbed her messenger bag and dropped a couple bills next to an empty glass, looking back down at it. “You know why that glass is empty?”
“Because it’s not half full.”
“Exactly. Something isn’t empty or half-full because it’s missing something. It’s that way because you drank it, which is better than watching it sit there staring back at you. It doesn’t matter what it’s half of if you never drink it.”
“I see.”
“No you don’t.” She said, grabbing a tattered brown jacket. “But maybe someday you will.”
Then she sauntered freely out of the bar. But that lack of weight on her shoulders was also because she had nothing to weigh her down. I didn’t know whether to pity her or applaud her.
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