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Sweet Stairs

It's one of those dark days where the loneliest words drift up from the shadows of each song I hear. The hum of death I never noticed before, separated from my consciousness by the beauty of a sweet tune, sings in my heart. I hear and feel and understand what I refused to see in my era of light.

The ageless skin of my face, the charcoal lines around my eyes, the perfume in my hair--they mask the stairwell I'm slowly climbing down inside. I look in my eyes looking back at me, but I don't see a crazy girl. Just a cold pretty plastic thing in glass. The muscles in my lips are being seduced by gravity. The light refuses to enter my eyes. My brows are low, but not unpleasantly so. The happy lines have been smoothed.

I drew again today for the first time in so long I can't remember. The lines came out awkward and ugly at first, but the joy of heavy ink and shade gradually came back to me. This is the sweetness of the initial steps back down. But I'm sliding faster than I usually do and I don't know how long the sugar pain will last.

Sitting in the dark and listening to the music of a decade in the past isn't helping much. Yesterday I wanted the oblivion of wine--tonight I want the oblivion of art.

What will tomorrow be?

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September 2006
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