the Valentine's winter

It's ending pretty soon, perhaps in a couple of hours.
And this picture of this actress who's quite beautiful, who was once the it girl but doesn't really act anymore , has painted her eyes with structure highlighting eyeliner, her eyes sly and slither and the whole picture almost melts.
But the disentangle of the photographs particles hardly matter; it's ending in a few hours.
my sister has been depressed for the longes time. almost everyone in my family has been clinically diagnosed with depression at some point, we all fear heavily, accumulate all the masses's posible judgment upon our shoulders, us, the valentines, sensitive and sentimental, and deeply impressionable ,have at some point felt that our existence upon this earth is pointless, such a feeling was so deeply embedded we could not sleep or shower, without feeling, like waste of water and oxygen.
I am not at all aware if it is in our genes, or merely in the upbringing and the years and years of living in an isolated house by the algea infested pond that attracted all sorts of animals and plants, I am not sure if it were the magnificent wither we were exposed to as children, if it were the miles of books staked in my fathers study, I am not sue if it were our parents's hinted, inaudible portrail of a large and beautiful world that made us seem like our being upon it was of no use, it didnt need us.
but we all got ba's then ma's then some ph.d', we all got married and settled down and saw, that yes we were small but there was a slight displacement in the worlds possession due to our existence.
we all un-maniced.
but my sister, m most beautiful sister, my most troubled sister who aways came home at the tips of nights, when the the earth rotated away from the moon she would stumble in.
my sister who had boys with grand futures as doctors and lawyers, NBA players and late night hosts, all at tips of her troubled fingers, has been depressed for the longest time.
I was 10 when she was 16 and she had always seemed sad to me, I would ask her these little, obviously oblivious questions and she would try her very best not to terrify me with her dark, obscure objecting view of the world.
my sister hardly cared for the pond ir plant, or algae, she hardly cared for the feel of burning sunshine in a freezing afternoon, the books she read, the books we all cried over, she read without the slightest faciel displacement.
we have all been sad, to clinical extents, us the valentines.
but maggi Valentine has been depressed for the longest time.
but that hardly matters, its ending in a few hours.
I had this boy in my class when I was in highschool, and highschool is such a difficult time to lok back at, for several , endless reasons, that the person who was a jumbled up, insecure version, a naive uncunning version of me had been in the most unnecessary of pains.
highschool reminds me of the fact that my society never stops judging or bullying, it only grows old enough to learn to conceal it in the forms of hellos please, goodbyes and thank you-s,
high school most of leeches at me, at the little bit of feeling I hardly feel anymore.
when I am in a classroom, and sunshine seeps in, and I am so young hat everything I do is impressive.
I come back home reading "lolita" on the way back, I make my self some tee, I read the reviews for the latest Broadway re-make of "waiting for godot" I make m self a bath and breath properly.
I was 16.
now I set at my window, sunshine seeps in, and nothing I do is impressive, I will not grow to become a sensation.
I a grown, and I no longer rasp the definition of a sensation.
"I am sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody"
this boy who was beautiful, and apparently intelligent, did not see within me what I saw within him,  even though, I more that stupidly assumed (in my hight of impressiveness) that it did not matter to this intellectual that I was not as beautiful as my sister, not as attractively depressed and self harmful, not as darkly, glisningly dangerous.
I was stale and dull, I carried a copy of withering hights with me everywhere assuming that will suddenly make me eccentric and essential enough, to get a smart pretty boy to like me, to make my consumption of oxygen (at times overconsumption) worthwhile.
but that hardly matters, its ending in a few hours.
goodness gracious, less than hours.
we all (the Valentine's) swallow the tangles of fear that collide in our throats,  embark upon streets scatterd   across separate continents.
almost as if we have now been displaced of the mother womb and nothing begins to matter, non of it, not our fears or lonesomeness, or stark, raving, indigestible ways of living.
we could wove a few words,  ge a few laughs, more one or two in the audience but eventually we all decay, and us 9the valentines) understand that a few notches too well for our own good
maggi most of all.
in winter nights, no one walks the streets, and that is when we bloom the most.
when we are not hindered by the clutter f asses rushing to do their business as if they are not gathered by one great poetic cease.
as if we will not all end up in the same fucking ground, we pretend we dont know each other.
but us (the valentines) appreciate winters freezing late nights, in wich there are no ungrateful, swift motioned human beings who do not take to the savor of a minuit.
"in a minuit there is time, to murder and create"
but that hardly matters
its spring in minuits.

winter's ending.