272 van gogh

there is warm rain outside
and yet the air smells of      burnt amber
like the smokes of fall that were absent
returned late, burdened,
baked with heat and dribbling through a gully

//covered in gold (or, a library older than light)

(started here)//for all the burdened who chase the Son

the light was exhausted from shining.  volcanic air had thrown so much dust and debris and hurt in its face as it rose, and refused to let more than weak strugglings of light reach the ground in mexico.  it cheered up when it saw georgia, but choked on the atlanta air and pollen. finally, it stumbled into the broad, comforting arms of a library.  the struggled through the window, even though the sky was finally clear again, and fell into the library’s lap with all the exhaustion of a child.

‘i need rest,’ the light said.

‘then rest until the morning, when you are new,’ said the library, and stroked its hair.

shake paranoia

I get angry when I’m afraid.

Not my icy kind of anger.  No, that’s reserved for more genuine injustices in the world.  I mean the downright, take-me-by-the-fists-and-start-punching-and-running kind of anger.  Normal, even kind comments become an insult as soon as they reach my brain.

It’s a miserable conviction to realize fully.  It’s easy enough to see in hindsight, after you blow up at Person A over what they said, that you felt threatened.  Your self-imposed dignity, your history with that person, everything in your heart screams that “NO! YOU CAN’T BE RIGHT ABOUT ME! I’M NOT THAT KIND OF PERSON!”