18 3 / 2014

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18 3 / 2014

—You walked into the next room; this I see, this I know—disappeared as you are. Though I sense you as if in a far corner. Hidden from me. Hidden like a mystery my energy might solve. You are time now. You are memories I chase. You are feelings I want back. You are where I go when I sleep—you are in the dark now. You are me before I became; I am you before the end. 

And here I go: enter those pockets of life, inconspicuous, trite; you with chest rising-and-sinking there forever. You are there.

But where have you gone?

20 1 / 2014

         Here is where the dramatic flair brings its fortune: that surreptitious, behind and beneath the darkness I have seen the lives of others, of families, drown in sorrow. Once the tide rises the adrenaline slows. The dust does not settle; never, never—pain is wrought and their scars become our wounds. In this way I feel cracks in my skin like a desert each day. The accumulating unforgettable. Here is the story: take that urge to stare into the explicit, the profane—realize the decision. To face or face away; one’s sanity rests with, rationale be released, what happens three planets away. A year’s walk to the enemy. The unreal enemy. And I am the victor in a war only I have heard of. This is sinister; this is what begins.

20 1 / 2014

Dear X,

            Late in time with the lights all doused, back to the darkness, face to the darkness round light sharp like a needle; a point. In the place ideas lie motionless un-listened to: rejected. Or ideas unable to form, so unreal—like how I feel when I consider formation and existence; the Universe, the infinite, the beginning and end. A problem that creates its own solver. What’s this to feel un-alone in the heart of alone. Where there is one there is another. The plight is our plight. I am you, you are I. And we flow, flow like music in the change. We change. The scene changes—and still: not alone. Speak to me. If each sentence beyond this night never registers an iota, makes no mark upon time or life or—speak to me. Let end the shroud of mystery, the featureless silhouette; tell me who you are.

                            Yours,

01 1 / 2014

And I in a house of rooms each unoccupied though occupied only with ghosts my own, those unpleasant—. Images discomforting removed deep in persona. The future’s for making a difference I learned; I learned there. Not for placing the daily affairs on repeat. What I mean is this. What is finding oneself speaking all that isn’t meant, felt, known? Like cutting through icebergs. Onward onward. And on I go to find what will make the world a real place. As those moments wallowing are lost moments. For grasping and losing and finding. And oh—to be awoken from nowhere; to see the sky in perfect contrast while it lasts. This is why motion exists. That it must be there. Just as lost as us all.

30 12 / 2013

—The mind conceives a dome of gold for the goals and dreams; for the imaginings, for the awe—that ideas may even begin, take shape, not fall away into nothing. Into the ether. The reverse of self-awareness. That the wrong choices may be made; that there rest choices like anchors upon us. And we fail to anticipate the weight of them, not on us, until the time is late and we’re dragged to the bottom. Asking, what is the correct step. How has the end come with so much left to be done. Though in the vastness there are echoes, trivial echoes to focus the mind in the world it projects. The world very unreal. Where the sky may melt, where my dome overlaps yours—at times, if we get it right. And I—

29 12 / 2013

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28 12 / 2013

Dear X, 

           I gaze upon lights like stars, sharp to the eye in a meaningful moment. And I ponder this shell of a scene; all the pieces I would place within it, just as I desire full of my disposition and taste like a thousand dreams-come-true. Here sits the stage, here the foundation waiting—waiting for hand-picked players. And I wrench together the space between what I want and claim I do not need. As do you, I know. I have studied you: you are never quite as confused as you seem. And words will someday turn to significance; a difference shall be made. An attentive ear to arrive and hear—to hear you. 

                           Yours,

26 12 / 2013

—I’ve made rounds outside the usual, out-of-range only just but still in perception. This is the story. I’ve absorbed the minds and mannerisms of a people full of myth. Pretense of confusion I sense, I allege; falsely perhaps. No lavish living, simply the bare—surely proof of something. Something in their favor. And in this world of segments I catch glimpses of this thing. We were grown like fruit from a tree, they say. They say, our lives have never been what they made out. Their lives. Their claims. What am I but another listener? And I am startled by leads that come to no place of finality. Endlessness. And I am welcomed, again and again; I am to be at home here, and I stayed for such a time. Disappeared from here and everything else. Over time I siphoned through it all; stumbled one evening upon a box of handwritten letters. Neither recipient nor giver; or—did I pen them to myself in a lost time? I resealed the box; gave it the return journey with me, leaving all else behind.

25 12 / 2013

The night begins—patterns unending, still stable—it begins; time in the black. Time to the mind, to consume itself, to feed and wrench and wonder.   To discover and wander. Like passing through a door to an empty room and looking once more for another door. Opened to the light. A future fallen right into place. And drain the rest or wear it. Shed nothing. Surf the sea of gain and loss like no other. And as though for the first time find a message—

Dear X, you—yes, you, there, here—my Dear: what’s here for you after all this time, to lift you, make you feel less unlike yourself. Here comes the dark. And then: the light.