22 6 / 2014
—In a thousand years what will a sigh become? Yearning for beauty and wonder: the long gaze for memory’s sake that’s never enough. We become fictions like the dust before us. What liquid stories. Pages with a scent, a taste—dreams and the rest. Dreams hacking away, before us, after us: upon the mound to show more never-befores. Calling this a new place to be rid of the old ways. To bury it with ourselves. And what do I mean to the animal beneath my feet? And what do I mean beside him? Or perhaps better to take this to sleep. Jettison life’s heaviness with the fantasies of the night. Where in the echo chamber, I reel a lifeless daydream of all I’ll never do or be. And there is no dust, no trace. It ends with me: and you—because here you are.
08 6 / 2014
I hope you are getting-the-hang-of your life; form-fit in your seat with the appropriate view. There are elements pumped to our minds meant to drop us. And beneath this burden collapse you. Lifeless facts know nothing of you—in time, I will know nothing of you. You are different already. Disconnected. Spewing sentences frivolous but meaningful to you. Dripping with your significance: the show you play in your head. Pretending your eyes are projectors.
And I would burn the energy to see you were I not so exhausted.
18 3 / 2014
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
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.
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—