Thoughts race my mind as water churns to the south and heat cascades down from above. The far away seems close and yet just out of reach, while the nearby blinds me to my own better judgement in lieu of moments that don't exist without picturebook corners holding them in.
The question that keeps finding its way to my lips is "Just what is it you're waiting for?" As if I need some sign for everything to start, commence, or coincide. I want to believe the things that are being told to me, but I can't seem to find the ways inside to make them real enough to be able to hear them without other voices.
And so instead of designing for exactly rights or saving pennies for the perfect raining day, I went with the image in my head. Took it out of my house and told it aloud to the guy with the baltimore accent. He sketched, I balked, and then we bantered back and forth until it looked a way were both happy with. Simple. Clean. Neat.
He had satellite radio. It looked like it was on channel 44, but I have no way to really know for sure. I wondered aloud about the needle and it's burn, but then Killing Joke poured from the speakers and he paused for a second to turn the volume up to maximum -- and from there on out I knew I was in good hands.
The pain was surprising. It didn't hurt so much as it insisted. My skin couldn't ignore the sensation, but whenever he stopped for a second it was like I wanted it back. The still air worse than the rattling blade, the experience almost as imoportant and desired as the result, even though a day later I am shoulder-peacocking just about everywhere I go.
He was right about one thing though - the taste absolutley makes you want more. If I thought I could afford it I'd be back there right now getting it done again.
Which means the question actually isn't "Just what is it you're really waiting for?" at all. The real question is:
The question that keeps finding its way to my lips is "Just what is it you're waiting for?" As if I need some sign for everything to start, commence, or coincide. I want to believe the things that are being told to me, but I can't seem to find the ways inside to make them real enough to be able to hear them without other voices.
FrustratingPerhaps that's why the divergences are so appealing, the escapes all the more wanting, calling my name and beckoning my follow despite the monetary sting.
And so instead of designing for exactly rights or saving pennies for the perfect raining day, I went with the image in my head. Took it out of my house and told it aloud to the guy with the baltimore accent. He sketched, I balked, and then we bantered back and forth until it looked a way were both happy with. Simple. Clean. Neat.
He had satellite radio. It looked like it was on channel 44, but I have no way to really know for sure. I wondered aloud about the needle and it's burn, but then Killing Joke poured from the speakers and he paused for a second to turn the volume up to maximum -- and from there on out I knew I was in good hands.
The pain was surprising. It didn't hurt so much as it insisted. My skin couldn't ignore the sensation, but whenever he stopped for a second it was like I wanted it back. The still air worse than the rattling blade, the experience almost as imoportant and desired as the result, even though a day later I am shoulder-peacocking just about everywhere I go.
He was right about one thing though - the taste absolutley makes you want more. If I thought I could afford it I'd be back there right now getting it done again.
Which means the question actually isn't "Just what is it you're really waiting for?" at all. The real question is:
Why did I ever wait this long?
[Listening to: Romeo Void, "A Girl in Trouble (Is a Temporary Thing)"]
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