sudden fiction

people say math is logical

In reality, numbers are more abstract than words. You see, there are a limited amount of words, but an infinite amount of numbers, not to mention the imaginary ones. It’s quite scary actually, to think about. If you could compare eternity, or forever, with anything, it would be numbers.

taming the tongue

She knows when she’s said too much. The hard, glassy look in their eyes is familiar, whether glazed over from boredom or judgment, it doesn’t matter to her—they’re the same. Their perception of her has changed and she wishes she could take it back, except the words have escaped and she can’t get them back.

It’s appropriate, this phrase: taming the tongue.

the new yorker

When I persue through the fiction section of The New Yorker, my heart lifts and drops at the same time. It expands as though to float away, yet constricts in a way that gives it substantial weight. I’m filled with despair and inspriation all at once, in a range of thoughts from “why can’t I write like this?” to “keep on trucking!” Currently enamored with this piece by Jeffrey Eugenides. (He wrote The Virgin Suicides and Middlesex, but I have yet to read any of his novels, though I am tempted to now. Neither of the premises appeal to me—too self-indulgent perhaps? though most of the fiction I read is of that sort of nature. The mind is a mysterious thing.)

subtleties

She learns early that there is no such thing as being too subtle. People turn their noses at those who care too much, who express too much, who love too hard. Instead, she learns to use words like rather, I guess, almost, taking on the tone of Victorian damsels who had nothing better to do except (mis)interpret the lines in between.

 I guess I would rather not say why, because this post is almost over anyway. 

How silly is that.

tension

Consider this: straight, jagged curves; sharp, soft edges; bright, muted colors. The movements of long fingers. The lines of wrinkled cheeks. The grace of crooked backs.

The bones of a lover’s spine.

I love you, but that doesn’t mean I want to be with you. Maybe what I love is an abstraction, an apparition, a dream, a phrase. A line. Singular.

Self-centered, but it doesn’t have to be. It doesn’t have to be, but it is.

Yes. This is what it is, take it as you will. An oxymoron. Something like that, but less complex. It wants to be complex, human, a life of its own. Isn’t that what life is. Complex.

Or perhaps it wants to be, to give itself more self-importance than it really holds. And that is something you can understand.

We are human after all.

(And maybe I don’t really love you is what I’m trying to say.)

fantastic

It’s a horrible word. You never use it when you are actually feeling fantastic. It’s too sarcastic or too over the top, hyberbole upon hyperbole, until its meaning gets lost in the word itself.

A shame.

antimeria

A new word I learned, meaning (from Wikipedia), the use of a word as if it were a member of a different word class (part of speech); typically, the use of a noun as if it were a verb. In other words, something I do a lot.

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I like the phrase I do love. Before you tell me it’s redundant or superfluous, I also like I do so love.

What do you like?