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Friday, August 13, 2004 The Tower There’s a mist of obligation I cannot seem to dispel, even though she criticized this flair for the melodramatic. But who is left to reassure me now? Inky letters have given way to old postcards, landscapes of concrete wastelands. And I find myself withdrawing, unconsciously so. Truth lies in music, in fiction, not the smile that dances easily enough to convince its bearer that all is well. But once in a while, reality breaks like a man cracking through icy submergence to gulp cold air. The air is sharp, and what you were convinced had faded into a muted scar no longer remains the vague sense of loss it did just days ago; it’s alive, this void. Challenge methodologies, convictions. Cynicism for the future ensues, the questions and irrationality diminishing into another memory, another fortification. The tower refuses vulnerability. These walls build themselves with a rapidity impossible to anticipate. Intangible until a lone voice questions if you’re withdrawing, even reflexively. But these reflexes grow stronger with the loosening of anchors, leaving me afraid to care. Am I hiding from myself? (Words.) ^ Top | 2:24 AM | | | 
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