I’ve been listening to this song a lot.
Over, and over again. On repeat.
sometimes the best chelation is sound.
what does it mean? when we give it all to the dance floor, what do we leave?
is it enough to not be real, if someone is alive to see you, and imagine how you might be?
like this doll. I imagine her sitting in the loft of the house where the girl once grew, a zero day genius, meta-ecstatic, sitting on the sofa by the big bay window, with the other toys.
imagined her sitting there alive with the sorrow, that she was different than the plush and plastic, and that no one ever really knew.
sitting there, echoing out, and over, and up into the vaulted ceiling, like so many women, in big families, who lose their lives in jolly sighs.
the aching infrasound bellows of the unseen matriarchs of life.
I imagine shelling peas, and the way the hulls leave purple stains. the skirts spread wide in modest communion. the desire to lie down, and let them break me open, let them crush me with their thumbs. we are all olives in the press rendering to Caesar and God.
if she had come alive long enough to feel me looking, seeing. would she have turned to the wall? what would a real one do, do you think, to escape my gaze?
i was arrogant. to think my sight would have been wanted. ignorant human. dolls are more in fashion these days.
how dare I disturb the emptiness that defines this place.