Soliloqui

“there is too much to see
to see much
of anything,”
she says
in her gentle solemnity,
a composure tempered
by the steady flow
of time.

“words are meaningless
and trivial,”
she says,
her eyes lit
with some inborn fury
dormant
yet not quite

i ask
if she realizes
what she’s done
and she responds
lips pressed tightly together

no one ever
called her
that of which she was
though she was indeed
a paradox

tbc

The sweetest joy, the wildest woe is love. What the world really needs is more love and less paperwork.
Pearl Bailey

I’m so stupid. I’m too affected by every single influence I come in contact with that I don’t even know what’s me and what’s a conglomerate of outside factors. I know we are our environment, but now it’s too foreign and also way too integrated. What are my true feelings? Do I even know? I can’t even separate the shallow from the innate.

I just get so wrapped up into something that I can’t even see the big picture.

But perhaps it’s the pixels that count.

Woe is me.

Pitiful, really. But should that pity be afforded to me, the one who can’t let go, or to the flowers that continue to die on my bedside table? Conundrum.
I should have thrown them out a long time ago. But red roses still look beautiful, even when the edges of their petals have blackened and dried to a crisp, even when a light breeze can scatter their brittle, browned leaves over the hardwood floors. There always seems to be so much majestic beauty in the melancholy.
And it’s not so much what they look like but what they stand for. No one wants to dump roses when he or she is clinging onto something even deeper. But maybe I’m the only one who feels a tinge of despair at such a disposal.