With glazed-over eyes, hating all the grapes on the never-ending grapevines; realizing that some things weren't meant to be surfaced indirectly. Certain vines become cut off as they serve no importance, while the chosen ones are used to temporarily redirect the focus. Observant of the rapid growth of the chaotic vineyard, it becomes seemingly twisted and eventually all the vines connect like telephone wires. All is passed along the wires until one becomes too consumed, a rotten grape; slips from within the reach of the mangled vine. The weight of the world sets in, and all of which was beneath the protective barrier of skin is suddenly exposed. Grapes squeal when squeezed, and secrets are public property.
Secrets are public property.
November 1, 2009