odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
I touched chubby infant fingers today, and was reminded of the first time I held someone else’s hand. It was a cold, sticky sensation, like trying to catch eel barehanded on a winter’s day. I locked eyes with her, curious about her input on the topic, yet her large, black irises reflected nothing in particular.
The second time was like the houseplant I kept, a small, quiet creature. It was a little gullible, so I would occasionally rotate its pot just to see how it would find the sun again. It was the perfect confidant, and I loved how picky it was about my singing: at the slight off-key note, its leaves would curl up in distaste, and at some point, this was the funniest thing in the world to me. But on some days, I can’t figure out the right medium to describe these thoughts with. Something feels off, yet I have too much pride to scrap my own creations. And so I layer the attempts, first impossibly delicately, then hastily so. I call the final opus beautiful for its imperfection—isn’t this just the excuse everyone else uses? Comments are closed.
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Authora little cynical & tired Archives
July 2019
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