Notebook Revisited 1

10/52 - Inability to Fly
Originally uploaded by LouiseKnight

December 21, 1990

I was in prison once. The guard refused to look at me.

In the cold, too far from anything but snow. Memory leaves thought behind when you're this cold -- becomes its own entity. A Remember of snow romanticized and crunching under my feet. Something different entirely than what surrounds me now. I can still hear it … crunching … but it's too late. My skin is frozen. My skin is wood. My skin is gone. The only thing that survives this is the essence of ice itself … is that what it takes to survive? Or is that what death itself will be - messages of frost from my mother - my ancestors - myself when I was six.

January 4, 1991

Behave as if my smile is enough … as if you believe I really mean the words I say. I finally grow silent. The light moves so fat and fast in front of mindless metal and there are some people around here that believe so much in what they think - they spray paint their words on dirty cardboard - or they put themselves up high, turn their back to you and expect that you’ll listen to their head for two hours. Don’t care if you are still there when they turn back around. Know you will be. Don’t care. Not Really. They KNOW they are right.

I think maybe they can see me up here - whatever I used to hide in a basement is on a pedestal. I hope I don’t get a lot of visitors. I’m still in prison after all. The guard won’t stop them but the guard still wouldn’t like it … too many visitors ... too much light. The sentence just keeps growing longer - I can feel it - a writer’s sentence to the sentence - no rehabilitation for the run-on. Shallow. Said before. Still unsaid. Maybe if I keep the heat low - stay cold - watch the lights from my window as it darkens - lights that can never hurt me unless I understand them.