Pretend this is commanding. Pretend a sentence on a page and some hair in your eyes as you look, as you breathe out of the corner of your mouth to make it move without using your hands. Pretend you are using your hands for something, me. Please. The stippled pink that pin-pricks the underside of your skin, threatening to burst through the spacklewhite unassuming of your hands, shoulders, face – that is how I know that the clock is not lying to me. Pretend that the breath you draw is animating the blood that pounds against your skin, trying to get the fuck out. Pretend each breath is more than a placeholder for the nothing you have to say. Talk to the end of a sunbeaten parking lot, get to the cement cliff at the edge of your preamble and throw rocks into the canyon beyond. Command my attention. Attend a lone sentence, hair in your face, far away from me. I am not writing this anymore. I am the blood that moves around in circles and can’t break out of the drywall shoulders that slink and haunt through your undecorated halls. Pretend there is nothing to say.
June 12, 2010
Source: http://jaelawson.blogspot.com/2010/08/pretend.html
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