Between
On the surface, you are you; on the surface, I am me. Somehow between these polarities we flounder for the common denominator so that you would be able speak the language that I speak, that for each word I use to paint my world, you would see the same vision in your mind's eye, and feel the same warmth.
On the surface we could sketch lines of familiarity: you are like my father, my aunt likes the same perfume, my best friend has a ring just like yours.
We could laugh at the things we are not, ridicule and throw away all that which is not us and not what we stand for; these lines we shall draw in red and never cross.
But on my surface, you define your lines in big broad strokes, etch edges with blunt graphite then coarsely paint over in dried-out acrylic.
On your surface, I shall keep fine pencil lines that I can erase effortlessly, but only because I, too, am powerless to leave it unmarked.
13 November 2002, Thursday, 10:50 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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