i want to be with sinners, not the petty, complacent kind, but the kind that live desperately. people who have terrible secrets and will fight you tooth and nail if you try to dig them up. i want the people who will knock you down if you're doing something crazy. i want someone to punch me. i want to know the people who have a reason to feel guilty. the people who are crushed, and when they are heartbroken, hate as fully as they loved. i want people who rage and aren't afraid to show a little skin. i want a table that is crowded and i don't want people to be offended by little peeves. i want everything to be bigger than it is. i'd rather have war than peace if peace is myopic, narcoleptic, and plastic-wrapped. strike that, narcolepsy is shocking. substitute drowsy. i want to run away, and whether it's to a civil war, a farm, or back to my mother, i don't care. i just want to run. i want subways crashing and people brandishing knives. i want justice to be so exacting as to be cruel, and i want to break my own rules in the name of mercy. i want it all to be harsh so i can teach it to be gentle. i want things to needing taming. i have too little faith to ever imagine i could upset some beast already slumbering.
steinbeck wrote about one little boy who lay on his stomach for hours watching an anthill and another who ruined it to see the ants scatter, frantic. i can never seem to reconcile them in me. one is always punching, flailing, and the other won't even fight back. they'll die of old age and i'll live on, an epileptic marionette until i end up stroking, paralyzed on one side and convulsing on the other. how can i split so precisely, a pared apple? pared in pairs, possessed by a pair, one arm is swinging like a helicopter. my favourite thing is kitchens and living rooms joined by one long wooden table.
i'd rather live in honest turmoil than naive happiness. i'd rather live with people who ask questions than people who are content. i need people who eat books and devour theories, not people who live on bread and milk. they have to be wild, with every ounce of their being, and live for things that already are, not things they've made to be things. i need the people who are burning.
i live in flames.
where are the people who live in the world and can exact formulas and dances from it? not the people who impose false numbers and spins, who candy-coat it in manufactured colours. i would only dye things if i found the yellow in a blossom, never engineer a neon. that's nothing but the backs of our eyelids and they have no other place.
we have to build the future with the stones we have rather than imagining it with gold we have not. i want to hear you scream and believe the sound of your own voice.
i am so damn tired of religious people and i don't even know any yet. i'm afraid to read my bible for fear it will make me want to act like a christian.
