la croix and the crutch of a girl

at noon my finger hovers over the empty bar of text, the green (only because I'm cheap) blurb that is supposed to answer her question, that is a friend i'm supposed to want to hang out with, but I can't move my body further than the place where my parents are in front of me, or behind or that matter. fear catching in the neck jerks on a rollercoaster of a bus, waiting for the stranger that will make me lose my breakfast and possibly guts over simply a question: where does this bus stop next? I shake my head because I do not know, and do not know how to answer, I do not know if I should smile and say I'm not sure, or instead give complicated--mumbly directions that do not even make sense to the kindest of listeners, and this stranger is in a hurry right?

And then pops up the bodily worry that they know I do not know, that they may see I'm faking, I'm faking this look of sureness, independent colors in my clothes, facing forward and not staring at all the interesting faces, and the music in my headphones just let me know, "I'm still flesh, I'm not dead, there's no end, my face is red, my blood flows harshly." (the glow, pt. 2 but I am honestly humming this one)

do you know the tune? it doesn't end there, but to stop is to curate the feeling within the lyrics, this song by the microphones, who, to me, often sound like they are dying in the middle of a song. No offense, but how can I offend someone who knows not me, and strangely I'll go to sleep feeling bad about this. Not that I'm anonymous but that I'm just like the others; behind their back even though I'm states and mentally Burroughs away from any microphones, or the band. Well-funny, I used to imagine myself singing with a real microphone, whilst assuring my school's chorus that I could sing, only I needed to be in front of a real microphone, this hardware, would let me range from tenor to alto to soprano and higher. It would allow me the rhythm many of us lack from tone-deafness, or kinder, we're strangers to the sound.

And what does it mean to listen to music, and never be able to use your voice--or hands? to make the sound most played on your itunes, or youtube, or friend's phone, or tape-recorder, or record. And damaged strings still play something, although strange, and slightly off key, they make noise. And maybe that is my whole point, that at noon I should at least make a noise, because keeping quiet, or not greening up my phone with blurbs of text and those winking smiley faces and of course twenty roses, well that would mean i'm negatively damaged, and i'm not sure, if any instrument ever began, or stayed unplayable.

I'm so angry that it's been so long, but what have I done in silence? Some writing, and lots of jibber-jabber, some reading, but mostly I've been silent, and silent in the paradoxical sense; yes, I do have more to say.