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Thursday, March 25, 2010


i'm listening to plastic flower by lena park now. who would have thought it would have held some meaning now. to love a plastic flower. was it real? was the feeling contrived, or a spontaneous reaction? how do we gauge the balance? it's like the issue with good writing; we never know when to make it heavy to hold down something concrete, to make it light enough to make it fly either. its so difficult, to actually know what to do.

but what can you do to a plastic flower? repaint it after all has washed away? put it in the ground, and hope that it blooms in its full beauty? what if it never does? how would i know, how would she know, if that the state was already in its climax, and there was nothing left? maybe the plastic flower knew, in all her artificiality, she knew. and she came, and then she left, when she knew the time had ended, and it was time for someone else to handle her. it was selfish, it was self-intended, but somehow behind the plastic the devious mind worked to a singular self-centered goal, and rid a person of his heavy plastic flower.

what if i've been dealing with a plastic flower, and now i've been dealt a real one, and i'm not sure, as anyone would be in my position, of how to handle so fragile an item. i'm not even sure if its real. i am not sure what is, and what is not, assuming, of course, i knew what reality was in the very first place. which i'm sure i felt the meaning, but did not understand it in its full complexity.

she is real.

but if i make a move. or i touch her. the illusion will fade. a plastic flower looks real from far. being more real, doesn't mean it will be real
in its eventuality.

_'Jx]- faded at 1:51 PM