2002-10-24
8:22 a.m.
now the city's busy sleeping
I was in the woods again yesterday, a grey yesterday with lowering clouds, and kept coming across groves of bright yellow that looked as though the sun shone FROM them. I sat by the ocean on the rock we sat on, and breathed salty air deeply to my toes. Ouch. Some packed, condensed sadness is sitting in the middle of my chest. I'm trying to pin it to something, to leave with the rocks in Yellowknife, or with my family in Toronto, or with people I love all around the world. It won't stick anywhere, though. It won't stick and it won't gel and it won't leave. It's partly just a crisping, the world all brown around the edges; it's the knowledge of things I leave behind, and I can trace my path by the dried-out leaves. * Oh, and it's so despicable, the things people do to each other. It's disgusting to hear the rumours about yourself, five mouths away from the source. It's disheartening to know who believes them, and it's delightful to know who spends their life doing such poisonous, evil, stupid things. You'll burn yourself out, you'll never get a grip, you will always be that person I escaped. all of the noise has died away
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