tiny poem and things

a small thing.
but I’m here.

wish I be a misty spot in the corner of your heart-window
however many rainy nights
I spin and spin and flutter I decidedly wait.

your view of yourself in the presence of one you love
is always
tiny


---


It breaks my heart when I heard her say, “But it’s my responsibility!” How it makes me dizzy.

Last night I missed the bus so I discovered the Lake Shore bus and took it all the way east toward Queen Station all the while listening to an old tape on my Sony walkman.

It doesn’t happen a lot. But once in awhile I read somebody’s work and I say to myself “how I wish I can write like that,” and this happens a lot when I read the works of Evelyn Lau. There’s something captivating about the glass and the coldness of everything that surrounds us, us who are warm with blood and all. Something captivating.

I can’t really see myself. I’m hiding. It’s easier this way. It’s not hard to hide yourself in words but it shows when people don’t understand you. The torture is to want to be understood without letting yourself be understood. Then there are times when you feel you’ve done all to communicate how you feel and still be misunderstood. Times like that you can sit back and say ‘well I did my best’ and you can rest easily.

I want so badly to write a story in the first person as a girl. It doesn’t fit. It just doesn’t fit. My hidamari-no-tami is looking back at me smiling. Ok.