The Lost Art of Being Direct.
All the day long, on paper I endeavor to make the world connect. It seems like all the letters and numbers and figures are, like my life somehow, in the shape of a heart, or some distant star.
A straight line is the closest thing I’ve seen that can successfully draw together two distant things. Just as a straight line is the easiest way to say that some things should not be, that two peoplenever were.
It’s something like a bullet, something like erasing with ink. But it’s nothing like trying, crossing things out isnothing like forgetting, because it’s all still there.
I try to make everything connect, a lifetime of related revelations, stretched across a lifeline of gray and memories and ink. A stained page full of blank translations of mental pictures of what a thought ought to sound like. In this way you’ve written on my soul, that’s your straight line to my heart, that’s what connects me to you.
I guess I don’t get the heart thing though, at least on paper, but it’s all in how you picture it. I bet I just don’t get how the heart works. Or maybe that’s not my job, no…I connect people and places, and memories and faces, the artistry is in the straight lines where they should not be. The wealth of what I do is in the efficiency, time is money, and it pays to be direct.
Timing, and efficiency, logistics and logic, reason and sense, all things I know wrought from rational thought. And then some idea of her comes flitting into my line of sight, my pulse quickens at the suggestion.
The art I prefer is all in her curves, and she’s somewhere else down some winding road.
And nothing is ever direct with her…just like I can never find the right words.
Just as her emotions remain as ever, demure.
And still this dystopian daydream endures.
A straight line is the closest thing I’ve seen that can successfully draw together two distant things. Just as a straight line is the easiest way to say that some things should not be, that two people
It’s something like a bullet, something like erasing with ink. But it’s nothing like trying, crossing things out is
I try to make everything connect, a lifetime of related revelations, stretched across a lifeline of gray and memories and ink. A stained page full of blank translations of mental pictures of what a thought ought to sound like. In this way you’ve written on my soul, that’s your straight line to my heart, that’s what connects me to you.
I guess I don’t get the heart thing though, at least on paper, but it’s all in how you picture it. I bet I just don’t get how the heart works. Or maybe that’s not my job, no…I connect people and places, and memories and faces, the artistry is in the straight lines where they should not be. The wealth of what I do is in the efficiency, time is money, and it pays to be direct.
Timing, and efficiency, logistics and logic, reason and sense, all things I know wrought from rational thought. And then some idea of her comes flitting into my line of sight, my pulse quickens at the suggestion.
The art I prefer is all in her curves, and she’s somewhere else down some winding road.
And nothing is ever direct with her…just like I can never find the right words.
Just as her emotions remain as ever, demure.
And still this dystopian daydream endures.
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