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Description

If I could tell you everything, I would.

But in this hour, how could I ever fit everything?

I'd have to pick and choose.
Tell you the important things.

I could tell you about when we met.

I could tell you how I touched the door in a way that could
be taken as holding it open.

I was only making it look that way, so I could pass through
without looking rude.

I could tell you how self centered I am.

I could tell you that you are here for me.

I am indeed not
here for you.

I could tell you about how, on the day that Tuesday died, as
I walked to the bus station, the puddles seemed to glow red from the sunrise,
and the telephone wire's reflection warbled, as if to tell me that it was not
as reliable as I had once thought.

I could tell you about the day that I never showed up.

I could say, "You know the one," and try my hardest to
believe that you do, in fact, know
the day about which I am speaking.

The problem is, I know that you don't know the day about
which I am speaking.

The problem is that I never showed up for many days.

The day that I rode my bike to the park to meet with you,
but Weismenzel Street looked more promising than Oak Park Drive.

The day that I missed the subway because I was too busy
watching all the purposeless people walk past me.

But I would tell you about the day of our wedding.

I would promise it wasn't pre-wedding jitters. It wasn't.
You see, on my way to the chapel I saw a woman. A beautiful woman, walking alone. I wondered how she could be so alone and so
beautiful.

How is it fair that I should be married before her?

I just couldn't be married.
It wasn't fair to the woman, and I knew I'd have to live my whole life
with the guilt.

That is why I never showed up. There are people in the world that are too
beautiful to be hurt, and I am not one of them.

You may think my logic is faulty and that I am simply
flighty.

This may very well be the case, though I wish it were not.

I can't tell you so many things.

I can't tell you about how I won't stay in one place too
long.

I am a balloon, a balloon that punches and kicks its way
free. The children can jump and try to
reach my strings. My strings are
reaching back to earth, not quite to help them, more as a precautionary
note. I may need to reconnect with the
earth one day. But for now I am happy
right here, out of reach of the children.

Maybe one day, the adult will come, pull my strings back
down for the children to grab, unravel.

I can't tell you about the way I make faces in the mirror,
to make sure that when I pretend to laugh at your sense of humor, it seems
genuine.

I can't tell you the last time I remember walking past
somebody that had a good soul. Though
I'm sure I've crossed paths with many, they've never made themselves known to
me.

I can't tell you what I care about because I'm not quite
sure myself.

I care about the weather and worry about the birds during
storms, I guess, but I don't worry about money or education.

I guess both can come in handy when you need something, but
I'd rather move on.

I'd rather spend my night on a train to Wisconsin or a plane
to South Africa. I'd rather try to speak
to somebody in a language I've never attempted to learn.

Even though I know that these, in themselves, are shallow
dreams-at least on the same level as education- I feel a need to accomplish
them anyways, a need to check them off of some subconscious list.

At heart, I always was a list-maker. A no good list-maker. List-making made my life so much harder because I could never
follow my lists. As soon as I made a
list my body took over my brain and I had no more control.

I'm standing here, doing the dishes, I need to runaway. I don't
want to at all. I'm telling my legs to
stay put. Stay put, please, for
once. But they're gone. I'm walking.
My legs don't even bother stopping, to allow me the courtesy of packing
a bag. They're out the door and
sprinting. Sprinting to nothing.

I can't be mad at my legs for long because as I'm sprinting
I'm feeling better. My head is filled
with yellow in a way that heads can't really be filled by colors, but they
are. I sprint across traffic, which was
luckily stopped. I sprinted past the
coffee shop, the printing company and the street that led to the market. I sprinted past everything until I came to
the end of the small town. My legs
finally allowed me to stop.

There were two way.
Back the way I came, and out of this town. Immediately I felt the yellow fog my brain
worse than it had before. I was
incapable of deciding anything, but there was more than a need to decide. I could feel my brain kick into high gear,
but I couldn't exactly tell why.

Again I sprinted. Oh,
if I could tell you everything.

Description

If I could tell you everything, I would.

But in this hour, how could I ever fit everything?

I'd have to pick and choose.
Tell you the important things.

I could tell you about when we met.

I could tell you how I touched the door in a way that could
be taken as holding it open.

I was only making it look that way, so I could pass through
without looking rude.

I could tell you how self centered I am.

I could tell you that you are here for me.

I am indeed not
here for you.

I could tell you about how, on the day that Tuesday died, as
I walked to the bus station, the puddles seemed to glow red from the sunrise,
and the telephone wire's reflection warbled, as if to tell me that it was not
as reliable as I had once thought.

I could tell you about the day that I never showed up.

I could say, "You know the one," and try my hardest to
believe that you do, in fact, know
the day about which I am speaking.

The problem is, I know that you don't know the day about
which I am speaking.

The problem is that I never showed up for many days.

The day that I rode my bike to the park to meet with you,
but Weismenzel Street looked more promising than Oak Park Drive.

The day that I missed the subway because I was too busy
watching all the purposeless people walk past me.

But I would tell you about the day of our wedding.

I would promise it wasn't pre-wedding jitters. It wasn't.
You see, on my way to the chapel I saw a woman. A beautiful woman, walking alone. I wondered how she could be so alone and so
beautiful.

How is it fair that I should be married before her?

I just couldn't be married.
It wasn't fair to the woman, and I knew I'd have to live my whole life
with the guilt.

That is why I never showed up. There are people in the world that are too
beautiful to be hurt, and I am not one of them.

You may think my logic is faulty and that I am simply
flighty.

This may very well be the case, though I wish it were not.

I can't tell you so many things.

I can't tell you about how I won't stay in one place too
long.

I am a balloon, a balloon that punches and kicks its way
free. The children can jump and try to
reach my strings. My strings are
reaching back to earth, not quite to help them, more as a precautionary
note. I may need to reconnect with the
earth one day. But for now I am happy
right here, out of reach of the children.

Maybe one day, the adult will come, pull my strings back
down for the children to grab, unravel.

I can't tell you about the way I make faces in the mirror,
to make sure that when I pretend to laugh at your sense of humor, it seems
genuine.

I can't tell you the last time I remember walking past
somebody that had a good soul. Though
I'm sure I've crossed paths with many, they've never made themselves known to
me.

I can't tell you what I care about because I'm not quite
sure myself.

I care about the weather and worry about the birds during
storms, I guess, but I don't worry about money or education.

I guess both can come in handy when you need something, but
I'd rather move on.

I'd rather spend my night on a train to Wisconsin or a plane
to South Africa. I'd rather try to speak
to somebody in a language I've never attempted to learn.

Even though I know that these, in themselves, are shallow
dreams-at least on the same level as education- I feel a need to accomplish
them anyways, a need to check them off of some subconscious list.

At heart, I always was a list-maker. A no good list-maker. List-making made my life so much harder because I could never
follow my lists. As soon as I made a
list my body took over my brain and I had no more control.

I'm standing here, doing the dishes, I need to runaway. I don't
want to at all. I'm telling my legs to
stay put. Stay put, please, for
once. But they're gone. I'm walking.
My legs don't even bother stopping, to allow me the courtesy of packing
a bag. They're out the door and
sprinting. Sprinting to nothing.

I can't be mad at my legs for long because as I'm sprinting
I'm feeling better. My head is filled
with yellow in a way that heads can't really be filled by colors, but they
are. I sprint across traffic, which was
luckily stopped. I sprinted past the
coffee shop, the printing company and the street that led to the market. I sprinted past everything until I came to
the end of the small town. My legs
finally allowed me to stop.

There were two way.
Back the way I came, and out of this town. Immediately I felt the yellow fog my brain
worse than it had before. I was
incapable of deciding anything, but there was more than a need to decide. I could feel my brain kick into high gear,
but I couldn't exactly tell why.

Again I sprinted. Oh,
if I could tell you everything.