Finding the right words to use for this song
I have you in mind, so it won’t take so long
Never thought I’d find you, but you’re here, and so I love you
I’m not wrong when I say, “I’ve been stuck by the glue onto you”
-beabadoobee, “Glue Song”
I would like to consider myself, in most aspects of my cognizant duality, a person indebted to my eloquence.
I cannot pry the door open to the sloven profundity of the situation; it keeps me awake far more than I wish it would. I do not care to delve into just why I spin myself in such a way; I have already tried, and the fruitless dissection is little more than futile philosophy.
The structure of my logography tends to spiral. I weave my way through everything, stringing the poles of the Earth and everything in between into my incomprehensible spider web of vitality. My words trail off, my meaning descends into the unknown. I do not know what I am talking about half of the time; most of it delves too deep into a rabbit hole of complexity that I care not to explore. I cannot traverse that sea of thought. Perhaps another day. Perhaps never.
In reflection, I remember the depths of that sea particularly well. I remember, most profoundly, my self-inflicted whirlpool; in my nadir pensiveness, the countless orbit of my thoughts around other thoughts and my conscience around my contradiction, I was so untethered I could imagine myself simply locked into rotation through the perimeter of my circulating, suffocating tangents.
It was a rhythm I knew not how to deal with, nor do I wish or anticipate ever to do so. It is a prohibition, I have learned, to experience the absence of an anchor; the force that pulls you down from the warped reality of your spun web, the matter that is the root of wandering branches. It was a desolate place to know only the glue that constrains me into idle chaos and not the glue that grounds me in its simple strength.
It is there that I have learned upon finding such an anchor in the constant beating of my pulse, that it is enough to just feel intricacy. It does not need to be convoluted. It is simply the metronome of my intended vivacity; to love and to be in love, to understand and be understood, and to be known without having to scream such desire.
In the fated impetus of the true heart, I am to be the artist of endearment, a girl with words meant to pave the streets of her darling jewel of mankind. My thoughts, those that fly rampant across empty pages and white canvases, cannot move an inch without bumping into the crimson reflection of my long-awaited dream. They find themselves no longer woven in trivial excursion, but purposeful. They gleam in my eyes, my actions, my face. They need not be elaborated when the quiet speaks volumes more impactful than words ever could.
Love, the foundation of my heartbeat, is a language beyond language, a truth that rests softly in the spaces between words where I find the bond that grounds me. It needs no elucidation—only presence, only the simple, undeniable knowing.
My thoughts, forever and always, find their way back to the same place, same time; same person.
They find their way back to the glue.
