In the grand scope of things, I am relatively insignificant. Another nobody, trying my best to be someone; to do something other than all this nothing. I’m just another body, fumbling around, trying to dance in the dark. Bumping into walls, and brushing against strangers; while I’m looking for a partner to groove with, an empty corner to sulk in, or maybe just the nearest exit. All the while, trying to grin and bare it when someone slaps a drink out of my hand, or stomps on my toes.
Truthfully, I think I’m getting too old for this. My spine feels crooked, my knees ache, and my feet hurt. I dig the music, but the volume is a bit too enthusiastic. It leaves my ears ringing. I can’t communicate with people anymore. I just watch their lips move, smiling and nodding when it seems appropriate — hoping that I’m not coming off as a psychopath, or an idiot.
Maybe I am a psychopath, because I can feel these violent impulses make a fist around my heart, squeezing off my empathy, and causing a dull throb in my temples. Maybe I’m actually a depressive, because I can taste the salty evidence of my discontent; tears in my mouth. Maybe I’m just an idiot, period. For whatever reason, I’m finding it hard not to puke, or cry, or drool on other people’s shoes…
But, for you?
I could be that emergency door, into a dark alley, that you’ve been looking to stumble through. I could be that flash of something exciting, coming for you in the shadows. A switchblade of provocation, to help you shrug off the numb of your ambivalence. I could be the barrel of the gun, that you stare down and into, that makes your pupils dilate like wormholes of adrenaline, disrupting the continuum of your time and space… I could be a million different sights of fascination, or devastation, to startle out the indifference of your mood; capturing it with anticipation.
I want to be a POP! of color, against the mute background of your normal day to day routine. I want to be the CRASH! that lets you know you’ve made it far enough to hear the punchline. I want to be the BANG! that drives a hole in the center of your being. I want to be the BOOM! of the heavy artillery, that makes you take my occupation of you seriously… I want to be thousand different sounds of revelation, or fury, to drown out the sound of your suffering; re-tuning it to awe.
I would be your getaway car, and then the long, hard, bumpy, road into hell. I would be the hot stretch of highway from here to Las Vegas, with the top down, and the radio up. The drug you would never turn your back on. I would be the hitchhiker with a short skirt and a long jacket. I would be your passenger, who randomly grabs the wheel to drive, playing chicken with the minivans of convention and cargo trucks of social expectations… I would be a hundred different ways to make you flee, or curse, to sweat out the poison of your normalcy; purging it with terrible-kinky-weird.
I need to be myself… Just a girl with an overactive imagination, a sinister libido, a bruised ego, and a lot of wonder to spare.
A singular experience, translated through a complex, mutual hysteria of sensual inputs and textual outputs… of you and me.
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- thethreadofawe reblogged this from ordinarywonder and added:
- thethreadofawe said: “I need to be myself… Just a girl with an overactive imagination, a sinister libido, a bruised ego, and a lot of wonder to spare.” -How could these lines not grab me by the hair and scream in my ear…. “She’s talking bout you too!” - I’m reeling! :)
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- sarparker said: At this point, I’m starting to wonder if a day will pass when I don’t praise you in some shape or form, Noelle. Wonderful; again.
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- roggyscanvas said: I like all the onomatopoeia! Cleverly handled too.
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