Thank you laptop for this wonderful gift, the erasing of an hours writing. That’s a fairytale I won’t get back, a love-letter that I’ll never write again, and a piece of my day lost forever. Thank you for your blessed glitch moment, I’ll treasure your plastic hide all the more sincerely.<\/p>\n
…. damn<\/p>\n
I’ve been starting to learn how to write with a pen again. Black ink, smooth on paper. I’m finding that my script has deteriorated far more than I expected though my fingers still show the warp of writing, complete with the tell-tale nub on the middle finger of my right hand, so perfect to rest pencils on. Bill, blonde, found me here and now we are to pen-pal while I am away. I’m writing in the black book I got for the holidays as I can take it anywhere and jot with my hearts impulse without crumpling the paper as I used to with stationary. Wretched pieces of paper that I would have to work carefully to spread open. Receipts, napkins, and countless pieces of note-pad, all demolished under various inks. When I didn’t have tree-rags, I would use my clothes or an arm. I want to write while looking over water or under a tree, as if to spite the fact I’m always caught doing so on transit. Miles transcibed in fifteen lines, I’m twice shy of missing my stop for the letters now. Once I circled a thigh, only to go swimming and lose it all to poetic blur. <\/p>\n
The ocean is as still as a stone. The sun setting douses the revealing light with the steady horizon, protecting the illusion of waves moving in such harmony as to produce no movement at all. I think of sine waves, troughs canceling out. Hard blue, it’s what I see from the window over the hotel roof, looking like a washing board, like the hair of a thirties starlet, impossibly perfectly coiffed. The science behind it, I want it.<\/p>\n
With regards to my correspondence, I’m uncertain what to write, how to splay my words properly on a page. I think about writing of my day, my plans or even fearfully trying to tell a story, nervous because the person I’m writing to seems to know me more than they should be. It’s an odd way to follow a friendship, cherished chance meetings at drunken gamer parties. Not a safe way to judge personality development, the flowering, maturing personal semantics that create a human being, but it’s almost enough. I found out the other day that he thought my extravagance back in the day was on purpose, rather than knowing that I merely didn’t know to hide it, recovering from a childhood tease of dying strangers and hotel rooms. It made me laugh to know that, another puzzle piece to keep by me. I’m sorry I missed years of kissing him on his birthday. I’d write about that if I knew him better, if he ever told me he loved me in sobriety. I’m too young to know anything, but sometimes I think I do. I’ll assume a little bit because I dearly want to. (Fie pleasantly on your religion, lovely, but not because it’s not mine, but because you assume as well. I saw you look at me.). You’d think with the Damocles Sword of 200 readers, I would be a bit better at knowing what to say.<\/p>\n
I wish I had a proper pen, a fountain for words to drink from. This ball-point thing doesn’t scratch the way I’m used to. Where’s the sound<\/i>??<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Thank you laptop for this wonderful gift, the erasing of an hours writing. That’s a fairytale I won’t get back, a love-letter that I’ll never write again, and a piece of my day lost forever. Thank you for your blessed glitch moment, I’ll treasure your plastic hide all the more sincerely. …. damn I’ve been … Continue reading “curling our hair together – 200 is a scary number”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1141","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1141","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1141"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1141\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1141"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1141"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1141"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}