Hands are strong on Mondays thin on Sundays. Sometimes I feel cursed with such confidant invasions, poindextrous equations, in a gestural way. No rhyme or reason other then that it was colder out on Sunday then on Monday.Look how defined the knuckle bends under the skin over time, time and time again, a new line on the flesh around the corner, like a new friend you knew you'd come to meet but it took some time. you just weren't ready for that park bench, clique sunset at that moment in time. I bought a bunch of rings too big, always over estimating realities, to heighten the feeling of loosing something new, or scrounging around a dark room looking for the symbolic cheat, the ring is double bouncing on the black floor off the black walls, going A-wall. The gold facial temporary lift quick fix facade, fades to workshop copper, what once looked dapper now resembles a plumbers utensil. You leave your rings around, almost on purpose cheap forgotten, and your friend constantly reminds you, "don't forget your jewelry!" and every time the same remark, "oh yes, my dear precious jewelry". (The ferry finally docks on sardonic Island after some unexpected turbulence). The only thing which has any potency at all, the only thing that dictates my life, the only thing that's more in charge of me, then myself, is the galaxy of my garnet ring. Devoted to my right index finger.
The pressure to not except the abyss, the blameful void, pointing fingers, the responsibility to always know, at every minute, at every second, where it is.To know when looking at it, that its the only symbol you have of real. Love.because life is cutting short. can you imagine the weight on my right index finger from this embodied treasure. this empirical desert, of obsessive love and nearing loss.
Perhaps if I have a child, but even then I'm not sure, as I think the ring will be my breathtaking albatross. back breaking criss cross, the absolute epitome of my life. Everything is different now, now that I live for every garnet fastened, for every gold clasp, for the gold that wraps around my finger, all I can hope for is that dear winter finger doesn't, in cold vanity, fling loss. If it goes then I shall follow.