Monday, November 12, 2012
Ho Venti Anni
Thinking back to when I wasn’t so numb
when all feeling sent me reeling.
When I slept so little that the days in a circular haze sent me plummeting into time spent alone at odd hours when it’s too cold.
I first began to feel when I was fourteen and a sophomore and it was way to warm to be October.
I second began to feel when I was fifteen and lying in my bed I could still see the night starts of the unpolluted midwest sky and love was as simple has holding hands in the dark and a stolen kiss.
I third began to feel when I realized my potential was more then just being, that the energy in my veins was as layered as classical music, when I started to see that life was bigger and more evil than anything that could be solved.
The plummeting age of sixteen. The spiraling might of my thighs as I learned to bike quickly. The spiraling might of my mind as I removed windows, created fires, thrashed at my future. As I discovered respect and diligence and weed and splinters and secrets and stories and vodka and loosing and thinking and learning how the morning dew and sunrise over Lake Michigan are all I really need.
And then seventeen. In school I sleep in any nook I can find as the overwhelming exhaustion of loss and planning make sure my nights are so terrifyingly long. The discovery of what it really means to feel when the days tick by until the end of the things You Think You Know.
At eighteen I am no longer needing someone else to buy my cigarettes as I swirl through the hours of two, four, five, six, and them I’m in the small dark room listening to the gurgle of a fountain. I don’t write poetry anymore, it is written for me.
Nineteen and I am utterly alone, cradled in sweat and curls sticking to my too hot from dancing face. Surrounded by women who now are girls who see me when I come home from a run crying. I enter deep into my mind and discover an insaitable darkness, a dark force pulling me further and further away from any semblance of hope as my thinking goes overtime. As I tumble back into the familiar grooves of summer and wonder and suddenly everything clicks as I hold onto sugary skin on an August night in the middle of Lake Michigan and know that though I thought I belonged only to myself, there are pieces in my past that are shared, places too known to be owned by just one.
Ho venti anni and I’m watching my silouette passing the peed-on walls of a city that knows cruelty and divine inspiration. The moon is three days waning and I’m noticing that I have been born on a sacredly loaded day, 3, and therefore I can never, ever, ever, feel complete. Not until I know il padre, il figlio, et il sancto spirito. 2, 2, 2, overlaping with 3, in a space prefectly creating just me.
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