The name is Warp

 

The personal meaning of this one is a bit beyond the reach of words

Mais

It all seems so easy now. That you are here, as am I, and that I
found
you.

240. Cloudy eyes

How my world depends so heavily upon the assumed-functionality of this one pair of cameroid apparatus carved into my skull.

My cognition is visually-dominated in its entirety. Memory, learning, retrieval. Until the moment things break, we have a nasty tendency to assume that everything we take for granted is nigh invincible. Whereas...reality...was one of the first fragile occurrences I grew to learn, right alongside that other regular pounding inside my chest.

Accept no substitutes.

I feel weak in the knees from this early-knocking of the future. I was at peace, with the surety that you will come to pass in the far undistinguished distance, bearing little to no resemblance to a present past. But.

Cloudy thoughts beget cloudy eyes with cloudy anticipation. Is that how it works, in the small scale of things? Your colors haunt me, but not in the way of your ghosts.

A tender place

How meaning embeds itself so...

17. On the age-based change in gender dynamics sobre that tender issue of the strange, the new, and the complex interlacings of attraction

Something something about a pair of eyes...once upon a time.

And a certain anticipation, anxious expectation, imagined course and trajectory for a story molded completely from my one-sided mind.

I was under the impression that they'd be gone with age, fade as false conjectures, dissipate as we are continuously pushed out of the school's toothpaste tube, down the societal assembly line.

Somewhere is a spring of youth that always counteracts what I thought I had learned.

An especially well-placed pair of eyes (and their use) was all it took.

-

More, more more.

I squirm in my seat as I feel the weight of inner dissatisfaction pinning me down by far outshadowing gravity's weight and pull and bottom-heavy center of downward keeling pressing coming-to becoming horizontal frontal dorsal contact with max surface area on the floor. Kissing dust, breathing through carpet loop and hole and fiber intermittent dust and mite and insect leftover with free-floating cleaning solvent residue.

Why me? Why now? I declared formal goodbye on that stage in life, where minimalistic contacts and exchanges of microscopic information magnified through my eyes that miss nothing see beyond plain views interpret to the degree of conjuring up nonexistent facts; out-of-proportion, out of proper theatrical cue as I simmer up the perfect myriad of melodramatic primordial soup fit for any three early teen budding bubbling ceremoniously ignored, ignored, ignored -- What is to follow? What do I feel comfortable and free to share, even now? Especially now? Twiddling thumbs, mangling fingertips tripping over letter and key, space and shift, rolling rounding blurring over thought like words unguided nanoscopic water treading down pinhaired repellent undistinguishable leaf and lawn.

Perhaps a name was a trigger. Perhaps it is like that other overflow causing such unnecessary concerns and piqued curiosities and tragedies and nervous breakdowns in disbelief in negativity. But this counterpart, if it counts as a counterpart in this fresh but related and not-so-different case, is older, has seen more, is based on some solid and justified (and I suppose positive by induced charge) ground.

And perhaps I'm making a way bigger deal out of this, again, as per the usual of then.

15. Trees and flying insects

...have the most breathtakingly beautiful anatomies nature has graced any organism. The latter, with the exception of Nikki, I'll have to satiate my eyes with Google images and diagrams. The former, howerver...

I Vinushka-swear I will one day take pictures of every tree on campus I feel attracted to, and do what I have so often not done in the past for beauties that moved me so very, very deeply down.


Did you know? All I ever wanted was to draw you, to own you in a way only artists can, to hold a shadow of a split second of you suspended still in infinite time. I wanted to possess that close knowledge of your exact shape and form to be saved and savored for all of eternity, to have that connection no photographer can ever know or experience with you. I wanted my eyes and hand to be the organic camera that never touched but yet knew you more intimately than mirrors ever could. I wanted to learn it, safekeep it, come back to it until I could see you and trace you and mold you out of thin air with my eyes closed.

I had never felt beauty as an emotion before you. I missed the chance to know; I would never now know.

You have probably forgotten by now. Four years ago. That seems to be when my permanent block more or less settled in, when I submitted to a fate of never hardly having the ability to draw comfortably again despite the occasional inspiration and frustration.

I am left with this insane paranoia (and this I swear) of never letting another beauty, no matter how common or insignificant, to ever escape me again. Even if I have to resort to cameras. Even if I lose coherence over language every time I try to think or to phrase this out loud. I still suffer periods of relapse where I feel I can tear my hair out by the fistful, by the incredulous disbelief of how I could have messed up that one chance of the only time we ever talked. Do you remember?

My right brain was yours the first time my eyes ever beheld you. Why did I not realize this then, even to myself?

Is it coincidence?
Is it coincidence? Is two months really the average of how often that gets checked? ...

I become so inarticulate over you, still. It shames me.