the way i see it
the audience is unmoving, except for eyes following the path I trace. egoless, judgement-full. their opinions matter, matter more than (don't let it) they matter more than (spin, step, spin, step) mine. their opinions are not filtered like mine through the pain of being human.
the stage is unforgivingly bright - my eyes flooded so I can't see them, but I know, I know they're there. I can smell them their hunger between the slender poles. I'm shifting, dancing, the poles spinning, a forest, a forest spinning. I'm stepping in time with a path that's been named, every step with a beat and no room for mistakes, there are no breaks, no resting pausing or pleasing.
the audience doesn't care for success, they lust after defeat so when my feet slow, or
stumble, then I hear a seat-shifting, sideward-glancing glare of dissappointment and that at the wobbling, but what at the crash?
(step, spin, step, spin) a careful algorithm that keeps porcelin plates spinning on thin forest poles I get slow, I get tired, I lose the beat and then the raucous cacophony of shrieking cracking pottery, the shards explode confettily and that's what the critics concur as my destiny, unspeakingly. ghostly quiet and hidden by the blinding bright wall.
sometimes its true, I even lust for it myself, delight in the hush of expected defeat, and the (step, crash, spin, step, spin, crash, crash) breeze that makes its way to me when the heads start shaking back and forth, and the furrowed brows that disfigure pretty faces, faces, silent audience. this when I am leaning towards enlightenment.
one day I'm going to forget them. fuck them. no really, FUCK them. they might not even actually be there, see? there might not be anyone judging my life. and then I could sit and enjoy the contiguous crashes because if it were not for the perceived spectrum of failure and success why would I care anyway what happened?
the stage is unforgivingly bright - my eyes flooded so I can't see them, but I know, I know they're there. I can smell them their hunger between the slender poles. I'm shifting, dancing, the poles spinning, a forest, a forest spinning. I'm stepping in time with a path that's been named, every step with a beat and no room for mistakes, there are no breaks, no resting pausing or pleasing.
the audience doesn't care for success, they lust after defeat so when my feet slow, or
stumble, then I hear a seat-shifting, sideward-glancing glare of dissappointment and that at the wobbling, but what at the crash?
(step, spin, step, spin) a careful algorithm that keeps porcelin plates spinning on thin forest poles I get slow, I get tired, I lose the beat and then the raucous cacophony of shrieking cracking pottery, the shards explode confettily and that's what the critics concur as my destiny, unspeakingly. ghostly quiet and hidden by the blinding bright wall.
sometimes its true, I even lust for it myself, delight in the hush of expected defeat, and the (step, crash, spin, step, spin, crash, crash) breeze that makes its way to me when the heads start shaking back and forth, and the furrowed brows that disfigure pretty faces, faces, silent audience. this when I am leaning towards enlightenment.
one day I'm going to forget them. fuck them. no really, FUCK them. they might not even actually be there, see? there might not be anyone judging my life. and then I could sit and enjoy the contiguous crashes because if it were not for the perceived spectrum of failure and success why would I care anyway what happened?
posted by Anne of San Fran at 5:35 PM
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