I Love Telecommunication~~

Sunday, March 19, 2006

I was thinking about what you said to me the other day, about my painting.

I stayed up half the night thinking about it, and then something occurred to me ans I fell into

a deep, peaceful sleep and haven't thought about you since. You know what occurred to me?
You're just a kid. You don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about.
Why, thank you.
It's all right. You've never been out of Boston.
So, if I asked you about art you could give me the skinny on every art book ever written...Michelangelo?
You now a lot about him I bet. Life's work, political aspirations, the Pope, sexual orientation, the whole works, right? But you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel.
You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling. I've seen that.
If I asked you about women, you'll probably give me a syllabus of your personal favorites, and you've been laid a few times. But you can't tell me how it feels to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy.
You're a tough kid. If I asked you about war, you'd probably throw a sonnet right at me, right? Once more, until the bridge, dear friends.
But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap and watched him gasp his last breath, looking to you for help. And if I asked you about love you'd quote me a sonnet, but you've never looked at a woman and be totally vulnerable.
Known that someone can level you with her eyes. Feeling that God had put an angel on earth just for you. And you wouldn't know how it felt to be her angel.
To have that love for her to be there for her forever. Through anything, through cancer.
You wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in a hospital room for two months holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes that the term visiting hoursdidn't apply to you.
You don't know about real loss, because that only occurs when you lose something you love more than yourself. I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much.
I look at you and I don't see an intelligent, confident man: I see a cheeky, scared, shitless kid. But you're a genius, noone denies that.
Noone could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine.
You ripped my fucking life apart. You're an orphan, right? Do you think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who your are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that incapsulate you?
Personally, I don't give a shit about all that, because, you know what: I can't learn anything from you I can't read in some fucking book. Unless you wanna talk about you, who you are. Then I'm fascinated. I'm in. But you don't wanna do that, do you sport? You're terrified about what you might say. Your move, Chief


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