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letra de ribs, and the things between them - nost

it’s easy to divide people into convenient niches like normal and different, but you’d be much quicker to call them happy or not if you’d listen to their tone when they explain what you don’t know. whether words or concepts with an air of contempt. maybe due to feeling better than you, but it might be envy. because as empty as your life may seem to them, it isn’t misery. realizing that as an individual, you can’t express yourself to the point of generalized understanding is the rock, and the hard place is silence. words clamouring, climbing single mindedly and idly to violence. like mutiny by an oppressed crew, thoughts can’t be repressed in you. your throat won’t be rough to the touch. instead, it’ll be worn ans smooth from overuse. cuts from where you bit off more than you can chew are buffed and hidden, but not by pride like a father, more time spent caring for looks than living, but glossed and smoothed to keep the machine simply moving. it’s not worth enough to stay put behind because their are bl–dy lines running down our throats and minds and lungs. truly the only things that make us anything to anyone. i wonder at what point people see that. they’re oblivious to the fact that half their lung contractions are blood spat across the room, because you’re amounting to finally showing yourself, so you better be shouting. the blood sprayed through words have cured more when heard than touching a cloak ever would. i don’t know that i’d do if jesus stood there, i’d only really care if he spoke. i’d listen, because there’s healing in that at least. if you want to be an open book to read, you’d better hope your pages are creased to the point of falling apart. speaking and listening to the point of not knowing where your feet are. that’s the only way to live, even if what you say outweighs the input that you give, because the happy are receptive, and complacent to sit and be, while you can get caught and swept up and talking endlessly. once in a while, if you drew a clearer map than you used to, maybe we could follow your path and that’s the difference. the ones whose ideas come from a path that can be navigated without -ssistance are boring. they are no mountain road, half scared and half intrigued by the beauty shown in having a sheer boundary. this line defined by more concrete and rock than there is inside of me. you’re on this ledge, wheel in hand, and trying to understand that urge to pull your left arm up. you know there’s more death in that commitment than in the act of getting up morning after morning, maybe even after noon. grudgingly waking from drinking yourself to ruin. we are not anchors, but we like to think we need them. we all have fears, but that’s just because we feed them. there are a few of us who wade in water, clutching nets for catching whatever we find, but there are more of us who sink and drown in public pools, weighed down by regrets that could have easily been mine. we’d be fools to grab each other’s sinking ships for safety, but even bigger fools to let the water filling our lungs say don’t save me

- nost

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