Looking for salvation

You looked like you might save me, once. I walked around searching for You. And when I realized You couldn't, and that maybe there wasn't a salvation after all, only survival, only stretching out of the tiny magic moments in being happy over the little things -- I don't know.

Blank walls

On my building's outside wall today, I saw a scrawled, familiar hand: "slum lord." There, I think, goes someone who doesn't suffer from lack of ability to express themselves. That's not someone waiting to either get off their private cross or die. That's anger, expressed at the uncaring sky.

It's kind of funny. You'd think graffiti would be dissatisfying -- something to show the ugliness of life, the messiness of a community.

Intellectuals do that and we call it art. Common folk do it and we wipe it clean.

"Folks like us," says George, through Steinbeck. "We're not like others." But you know, Lennie's dead, and with him the hope of salvation, and the idea of being different.

-- police tagline. do not cross --

God help me if I know why I fall in love so easily. The allure of walking with someone new, and seeing new things, perhaps.

And it always breaks.

Lanyard

Bianca's fingers thread back and forth, weaving her strange and twisted knots. Life is like that, I think, while I watch her hold bright and shining threads, tying piece after new piece.

Sometimes I want the simplicity of being an object; then I would have a purpose. I would be precious to someone. I would be held. I would be blessed by the person who made me, because we each leave our marks on things that we create. Instead, I ask her to please put away her art project, because we have other things to do.