“Stop fidgeting.”
You yell at me. Your anger is fresh and wet, but the paint is finally starting to dry.
You’re mad because I’m jittering. You’re really mad at yourself because you too harbor
the same potential energy but are afraid to disperse it into creativity since
someone once yelled at you to
“Stop fidgeting.”
But I’m not really being creative or productive. I’m only allowing my existence to surpass me
instead of submersing myself. I’m itching to break forth from the layers of impenetrable,
stagnant life that saturates the air, just as the building is squirming to crawl out
of its layers of paint but it decided to
“Stop fidgeting.”
A long time ago the wall’s kinetic energy was white washed or gray washed or perhaps cream
washed. But who really cares about acute distinctions between colors that are so faded?
The luster of the original energy is now only that…a luster…a gleam on a surface,
a spectrum of ransomed light.
“Stop fidgeting.”
I’m an object that holds claim to no authentic glow. I want to pick at the flecks of paint that
have started to become semi-dried, just like they picked at your confidence, slowly
pulling off large chunks, revealing your rough brick underneath. But that would
be fidgeting. Your skin is starting to become gray washed…
“Stop fidgeting.”
Your face is still drying, but it will decay and peel off just like the paint from inactivity…so
sad…the decomposition of creativity…the combustion of potential. The paint is still
drying, just like the corners of your mouth that are glossed over with moisture
from dead kinetic energy and still you chastise me…
“Stop fidgeting.”