Could we maybe pretend I said it right the first time?

That I took the road best traveled

and shouted love, love love -

That I marched to the tune of your drumbeat heart,

stayed cliched at your doorstep with roses and tux

at the ready.

Could we act like even though I didn't know

the steps

that I danced anyways?

That I didn't go slow when you were fast,

didn't crush toes

as you waltzed past?

Indulge me my fantasy of indulging yours

of not watching breathless from the sidelines

There's more of me that meets the eye, I, aye,

but maybe it was you that I denied.

We are subject to the object of our affections
Infected with invective exaltations
united by discordant conversations
Every contradiction, a proclamation:
Love is a knot
We don't untie.

False Truths

Sometimes I worry that words are false truths

spent after the fact – or before

but never during.

We talk ourselves into, through, and out of,

spin the story,

set the stage -

but ignore what's already on the page.

Do words hold power or do people?

If we justify, is it just?

Is the heart an open book, a ticking clock?

Or is it just a heart?

Maybe it's not wrong to say “this is why

I chose to pick up that guitar”

if it keeps you playing.

Maybe it's not wrong to write down words

of courage for when you have none.

Maybe it's not wrong

to say I love you

I love you I love you I love you

because I do.

I do.

I really do.

Brian assists Devon with GDS2 submission.

Brian has gained a level!

Brian attempts new attack: VICTORIOUS MONOLOGUE

---

I'm hanging upside-down from a cliffside by a shoelace-thin piece of rope knotted precariously around my left pant leg, which is on fire, and the only thing that I can think about is how this would be a great place to begin a story. In Medias Res, they call it, which means “into the middle of things”. The point before my certain death by a flaming descent from a massive height should probably be considered a bit more penultimate in the story, or ab iuxta finio, but this does not roll off the tongue quite as well, and when it comes to pillaging dead languages for personal use, sound is the only thing that matters. When human society dies out forever, the great writers of our history will be more or less completely ignored by whatever comes next - but the word “Rofflecopter” might still come up as an expression of amusement in casual conversation.

The pant leg, incidentally, is what is on fire. Not the rope, though that will happen eventually. I can understand how that sentence could be confusing.

The thing about In Medias Res is that it has a lot of punching power. Writers are always looking for that good first sentence, often before they even know what they're writing about, because like all good communicators they know it is best to get to the point first and then marvel at the details later. Questions like Who am I? What's my story? How did I get to this point? are less important than the ones running through my concussed brain at this point, like Will that knot hold?(No), Am I going to die? (Almost certainly), and Doesn't that hurt? (Yes. God, yes).