Unbroken :: essays research papers

Unbroken     I wouldnt know how to describe a painting or a sonata, tho I can tell several(prenominal)one how I feel, though they r arly know what I mean. Words fail me often,but nobody notices. They atomic number 18nt listening anyway. One person knows me. WhenI talk to him I feel like a knife in a drawer, because my spoken communication have power.The possible damage would be irreparable.     He and I are like a house falling apart. Our sidewalk is askew and our call box is missing. It is painted pink and yellow. We love it, its unique.Last night I stomped my feet by dint of the floorboards because I wanted to feelmy toes in the demesne. I pushed my hands with the ceiling and kicked downthe walls. I know he wonders why I do things like that. I just wanted to letsome air in. I said, "Look hon, now we can see the stars." He brushed off thedebris and put me to bed. He wont sleep tonight.     His thoughts arrest up with the moon trying to exercise the demons in hismind. Too intelligent, to a fault spiritual for his own peace. A shaman, unstuck intime. A bias of genius and a slap in the face of this macrocosm. Always restless, inquisitive for answers. Impulsive and inspired, writing down his thoughts.Funny stories about Elvis and his followers, the Elvi, or dirty poetry.Painting his visions on sheets that hang from the eaves or painting me withpsychedelic designs. It doesnt matter which. All of it makes me want himmore.     Some things I say to him are like sour notes played too often. Im outof tune. He of all time sings along. Our waltz is better than most, I suppose. Weknow the steps by heart. The world questions quickly around us and our quietdrunken pace, but we dont care. Our minds move quickly despite this worldspetty distractions. Its us and them, and were the only two in her right mind(predicate) people left.     He makes me nervous, stil l. His dreams are bigger than both of us.When we speak the dustup fall from my lips. They arent enough to explain who Iwant to be. I am so flawed. He says, "Sometimes people have imperfectionsthat are expense living with. Youre a little eccentric. Its part of yourcharm." This man knows me, and loves me anyway. He is crazier than I am.     Eight years might as well be a thousand where were concerned. Historyhas roots that go deep. They go to the center of the earth and back and wrap