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a case study of guilt; dars [blitz]
Feb 7, 2017 22:33:31 GMT -5
Post by heather - d2 [mylee] on Feb 7, 2017 22:33:31 GMT -5
s h e l b y ♔ l e v i a n e
I am almost sure I fucked one of the boys from District Nine.
And when I say almost, I mean vivid recollections of forgotten tension are coming back and sending the blood rushing to my head any time I begin to simply entertain the thought.
Almost is a word that I am both incredibly fond and incredibly afraid of.
In a sense remembrance is then left to do nothing but hang in the void between confirmed presence and denied existence with no savior to tip the scales one way or the other.
It was simplicity in the most complex sense, guilt without jurisdiction, and ease of mind without the suicide.
Perhaps this was the afterlife my sister had long been looking for.
With an almost empty bottle in hand and a mind almost deterred from speech by slurred words and incoherent thoughts, I waltzed towards the girl who had given name to the location red zone seven when order had fallen through and the walls had spun.
I almost recalled her name as I stumbled to her side and rested a hand upon her shoulder. Instead, I found myself laughing as I leaned upon her, searching for the correct thing to say in the spare seconds of silence that filled the space between my joy.
Tapping the bottle against my skull I silence her with a motion of the hand as rhythmic repetition is meant to do its job of bringing about a past already long enough forgotten to erase its existence.
But there is not a solution within my grasp, and with frustration I bring my symphonious tapping to an end before turning again to face her with a quizzical expression plastered on my face for a second longer than I would care to admit, “Do you remember me? I remember you, but I am pretty sure I do not remember your name.”
And when I say almost, I mean vivid recollections of forgotten tension are coming back and sending the blood rushing to my head any time I begin to simply entertain the thought.
Almost is a word that I am both incredibly fond and incredibly afraid of.
In a sense remembrance is then left to do nothing but hang in the void between confirmed presence and denied existence with no savior to tip the scales one way or the other.
It was simplicity in the most complex sense, guilt without jurisdiction, and ease of mind without the suicide.
Perhaps this was the afterlife my sister had long been looking for.
With an almost empty bottle in hand and a mind almost deterred from speech by slurred words and incoherent thoughts, I waltzed towards the girl who had given name to the location red zone seven when order had fallen through and the walls had spun.
I almost recalled her name as I stumbled to her side and rested a hand upon her shoulder. Instead, I found myself laughing as I leaned upon her, searching for the correct thing to say in the spare seconds of silence that filled the space between my joy.
Tapping the bottle against my skull I silence her with a motion of the hand as rhythmic repetition is meant to do its job of bringing about a past already long enough forgotten to erase its existence.
But there is not a solution within my grasp, and with frustration I bring my symphonious tapping to an end before turning again to face her with a quizzical expression plastered on my face for a second longer than I would care to admit, “Do you remember me? I remember you, but I am pretty sure I do not remember your name.”
