I’ve killed.
That idea is a weight that compresses my emotions into the back of my mind… and I find ways to deal with the reality when the images start to leak into my consciousness.
I can continue to work my designs into clothing. That was my strong point. Well… not was. I still sell things on a regular basis; under a guise now since it wouldn’t work to put my actual name all over everything.
My mother still hooks me up with care packages from India filled with whatever she thinks will “fuel the future of the company”. Really. On the other hand, when my father isn’t here on business he’s in Greece visiting family or at home with her. He visits once and awhile; hard to explain to him why I live here and would be even easier if he called before showing up.
…
It would be difficult to tell them that I took up a gun to protect my prospects.
It would be hard to explain that on occasion I lift some of this and some of that to bolster my work.
It would be impossible to relay the number of bodies lying in my wake.
…
But the work is good. The pay is good. I can just hide away in those cloisters of brick, smoke and shadow. I can stay out of trouble when I’m in it.
…
Hard to explain that last thought. It’s like being naked in public. It’s like the rush of blood to the bridge of my nose at the edge of an orgasm. It’s like taking that first strong gaping breath; breaking the surface of the ocean. I can focus on it and be completely in the moment knowing that towards the end there’s something of great importance awaiting my arrival.
When I’m in that mode, when I know there’s work to be done I can wrap it up and move on to the next thing easily. Carefree…
…
…and it’s cool, but when the sky is in twilight towards the morning and I’m standing in this lift… for the eternity it takes to get me home… my mind is quiet.
Save for that little voice…
… breaking what would be the single most important moment of solstice from a raging inferno of a night.
I’ve killed.
That idea is a weight that compresses my emotions into the back of my mind… and I find ways to deal with the reality when the images start to leak into my consciousness.
I can continue to work my designs into clothing. That was my strong point. Well… not was. I still sell things on a regular basis; under a guise now since it wouldn’t work to put my actual name all over everything.
My mother still hooks me up with care packages from India filled with whatever she thinks will “fuel the future of the company”. Really. On the other hand, when my father isn’t here on business he’s in Greece visiting family or at home with her. He visits once and awhile; hard to explain to him why I live here and would be even easier if he called before showing up.
…
It would be difficult to tell them that I took up a gun to protect my prospects.
It would be hard to explain that on occasion I lift some of this and some of that to bolster my work.
It would be impossible to relay the number of bodies lying in my wake.
…
But the work is good. The pay is good. I can just hide away in those cloisters of brick, smoke and shadow. I can stay out of trouble when I’m in it.
…
Hard to explain that last thought. It’s like being naked in public. It’s like the rush of blood to the bridge of my nose at the edge of an orgasm. It’s like taking that first strong gaping breath; breaking the surface of the ocean. I can focus on it and be completely in the moment knowing that towards the end there’s something of great importance awaiting my arrival.
When I’m in that mode, when I know there’s work to be done I can wrap it up and move on to the next thing easily. Carefree…
…
…and it’s cool, but when the sky is in twilight towards the morning and I’m standing in this lift… for the eternity it takes to get me home… my mind is quiet.
Save for that little voice…
… breaking what would be the single most important moment of solstice from a raging inferno of a night.
I’ve killed.
