At the age of thirty-six I am starting to truly enjoy the stretched silences in my head. I am grateful that in a world that thrives on inappropriate noises I get to block all the fermenting ache of chimed phantasms behind me. I do not have the patience to do such... to embrace what I consider gruff, ugly. I let all the annoyances of my time glide easily like a tongue curled at the tip of my mouth- ready to be swallowed or be spat out. What I might do or I might not do, I have to tackle in the midst of spindly wakefullness to even just get a glimpse of that valley that leads to evasiveness. I think I deserve this opaque transformation, this mesmerizing show of vivid apparitions that I have breasted for a while now. Let me love this language that is an octave higher than yours. I love this stillness, this innocence of time, the sirens mouthing the steadfast burning of swishing hearts - all the bluntness forgotten.
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