Wednesday, January 21, 2009


What makes us pile into a room with fresh shining faces, scrubbed up like so many shoes, gleaming like fresh blades, like the flat top of a new bar of soap, untouched by fresh things, unsullied by new words, thoughts, experiences? What makes us so goddamn cold-steel scared of what's just around the corner of that wall? It's the not knowing, we say to ourselves in the safe quiet vacuum of our own heads, our own spaces; it's the not knowing that's the worst. What if it's actually okay? What if it's not as bad as we'd thought? But what if it is.