i look at my reflection
the window stares back
there is a transparent distance between me and
the basket that weaves his fingers
there is a smell between his gaze and
his deft touch on the strips of cane
a smell of all things dead
no but they must have died out there somewhere
things he wished thought wanted gave up wanted some more gave up even more
the kneeskin he scraped again and again
the ankleswell he massaged trying to run after them trying to run from them
scabs he picked absently as he wondered where
those things went
those things that have now died
and left a smell between his gaze and
his deft touch on strips of cane

the pavement is a rather long blur
rushing past just in time for shapes
outlines forms etc
to become one mass bubble of
vagueness
a little too much like my past i'd say
i spot woodsmoke
thin wisps under fat dough
puffing in protest as
blotches of black
dot it like so many
memories
standing out naked
on a clean patch of life

if there were no shadows at all
how would we see the wall

she mocks the other, the one who is so openly obsessed with herself. she chuckles, saying that other one is an attention-maniac. she delights that the other one thinks if a man says long time huh, he's lusting after her. she doesn't know that secretly she is crazily in love with her own self. and she doesn't know it's not a secret not really. she can stare at her own reflection for years. she loves her hair, her breasts, her colour. she is a genius a beautiful genius. if she were a child she'd stomp her feet and insist every man must love her want her worship her crave to have her. every woman must envy her. after all, doesn't everyone pale before her. she is aghast when a man looks at another woman in the same room. she goes insane when a woman appraises another woman in the same room. rage. fury. you could smell it off her. you could sense it off her. a narcissus clawing at the walls forced civil behaviour.

i never thought it would be so difficult to adjust to the non-existence of pain. to deal with the absence of immediate tragedy. i never thought i'd get withdrawal symptoms after a spell of sadness. which in my case has lasted almost 30 years, just for the record. i suddenly find myself craving for those dark days when i could write of intense longings, when i could lash out at life saying look, you fucked me over again and i'm still standing. i didn't think i'd find it so tough to handle it when things start falling in place, when life finally runs frighteningly close to the way i'd wanted it to. i think of the men who hurt me and i'm amazed that i wrote so passionately for them. and so openly. i'm even more amazed at how fiercely reluctant i've become to share my writings of happiness. i want to keep it inside me. protected. clean. safe. shared with no one but him (time to thank your stars guys). strange, i remember observing how people don't talk of their happiness and just go on and on about the things that haven't gone well for them. old age i tell you.

http://www.anniezaidi.com/2007/10/brief-contextual-history-of-blogger-in.html