Master Thoughts

eulogies

haereticum:

after death
we exaggerate a person’s good qualities,
inflate them.

during life
we are often repulsed by that same person
while talking to them on the telephone
or just being with them in the same room.

and we are often critical of the way they
walk, talk, dress
live
believe

but let them die
then what creatures they
become.

if only at a funeral service
somebody would say,
“what an odious individual
that one was!”

even at my funeral
let there be a bit of truth,
then the good clean
dirt.

 -Charles Bukowski

(via barryquinzel)

you use names because there’s nothing else left of the things you’ve lost, did you know that? you spit them out of you and pull them closer all at once, all in one big gaping breath that hurts and heals and changes nothing because gone is gone. you, i, me, we. you ask what hurts like there’s an answer, like there’s a sliding scale. what hurts most is the ending. any story, no matter how painful, is better than the ripped-away plaster feeling of a story that’s ended. of something that you will carry so heavily in your hands for as long as you exist, and the rest of the world doesn’t notice because no matter how large your pain, it is still so very small. the things that hurt are the things you can’t fix now, the promises you can’t keep. the things that hurt most are when she takes that half-step backwards and you were prepared for it but not like this, not like this. what hurts is when you actually have to back away from lab equipment sometimes, close your eyes and pick up the fiddle and just play until it hurts, the way that latex gloves and chemical burns feel like an insult to her memory and you didn’t even like her that much when she was alive but this was her place and it’s empty without her. the things that hurt involve coma patients and grey-slate eyes and a kiss that tastes of metal, of whispering shall we rule, of three gingers in space and laughter and light and watching it go wrong and learning your lesson and tearing across the realities to find one a little bit like this and sliding into it and whispering her name like a prayer. what hurts the most are the things that you can’t bear to write down in case they are found but need to let out of you somehow, the things you carve into rocksides with your hands and a hammer and watch as they crumble and know that it’s not enough because everything will end but some things end far too soon, and while you can walk steadily in the dark with enough practice, you’d give anything to feel the light on your face again.

the things that hurt are not the lives well lived, but the lives barely lived at all.

the thing that hurts the most is watching the blade fall, the rope running through your fingers, and being unable to stop it, when you can’t look away. dark eyes and dark eyes and dark eyes, shading into black and darker still, a snippet from a story you were too confident to remember at the time.

they read like so: ailla, ushas, liora, lilly, doctor, mesmiranda, isadora. they will read like so, they have read like so. in high gallifreyan the difference between the word for death and the word for life depends entirely on the context. 

they read like the lines on your hands where you’ve balled them into fists over all the years, deep-set and inevitable and heavy in their familiarity, worn against you and wearing down and always just there, in the corner of your eye, waiting for notice. they read like a burned book, or a burned planet, or a burned-out husk of a ship where none of the lights will ever light again and you have to navigate your way to your things with your fingertips and your palms as though you’re the match and you’re trying to set yourself alight with each step, catch fire, catch something, burn it down and feel it warm under your fingers again feel a pulse through your own and breathe again

the thing that hurts the most is when you can’t look away