Matchbox Maladies

Catastrophic uncertainty of the self.

Month: January, 2012

Love, Your Wallflower

by Sine Qua Non

 

If it were between the two of us, there would be no song. Just somebody drowning in the lines painted on the walls while the other walks away, stripped.

Oh the wonder of delusions.

Detour

by Sine Qua Non

And just like that, things changed. The outlook, the outcome, what’s hoped-for, what’s given.

Because we did try. Because we used to joke about finding happiness in strange defunct currencies and delightful deadly dishes. And then. just like that, from being avid fans of each other’s remarks we became occasional reporters of casual occurrences. Unnervingly unnecessary, incessantly desired despite. We denied ourselves of the exchange. We convinced ourselves there was no want for the other. We tried to keep ourselves sane. We failed. What kind of success did we hope for anyway?

We paved the path through the hilly landscape – cleared out too much, avoided the shortest most direct route, and lost ourselves along the way. Hopefully we discover why it’s all necessary and actually find ourselves back on track at least, ready to be taken wherever the good things are.

And right now, just like that, we’re back on track. But some clearing needs to be done. Or we could take a detour if we have to. Or a chase can happen, just for fun.

Stay still, little one. This will take you somewhere for sure. For now. stay. Still.

For The Heart That Hopes

by Sine Qua Non

by Sine Qua Non

Schematics: A Love Story Fig.17

Your words touch me. Your thoughts excite me. I want to try all that. Explore everything with you.

by Sine Qua Non

We talk about nothing, really. Uninteresting stuff maybe. Things that only seem funny to retards with the hearts of five-year-olds like you and me.

Mundane.

Cool cat, I try to fight it, I do. But my heart jumps, races — so much so that I need speed bumps — at the mere prompting of lil’ ole you.

(My face flushes, warms up, sickening fuzz, at your memory; I smile to myself again, die a little more again.)

First Thing in the Mourning

by Sine Qua Non

She tries sordidly to let go of the thought. She directs her attention to everything else.

Around her the stained tiles soak up the pale light, the specks of damp dirt stare back at her. But the thought, too strong, weighs her down and she falls. The cold wall breaks it, she rests her forehead there, the concrete kisses her cheek.  A drop of water trickles from the shower head onto her bare back. There is a chill at the thought of absence, no arms outstretched, only the floor waits.

She writes with her claws on the fading white paint. In the end of things, here it begins: the story of her demise.

To Cut, To Chase

by Sine Qua Non

I have been very fond of the word ‘pursuit’. I’ve also been quite intimidated by the thought of it. The idea that I am the one doing the chase still scares me. Or now that it has come up again, the need to do so already gives me the jitters.

I am in anticipation although I feel a little numb and in forced detachment. I know that there is a tiny but deeply embedded part of me that longs for him. And I hate it. yes, I hate that part right there. If only I know where it is, I’d hunt down that flea-of-a-feeling and squish its guts out with my fingers. Sick.

Is that then what I should pursue? To chase that part of me that intends to run away and chase him?

This is what it has become: I am not merely pursuant of him anymore. I am actually after the part of me that seeks to pursue him. To save me from the pains of pursuit. My woes have given birth. The complications unbearable.

Aren’t pursuits supposed to be beneficial? To be reasonably good?