Thoughts are surging inward the mind, and outward the eye, meeting the grey waterfront. And the sun is veiled in pebbled blobs of clouds, which raises, by hand, a mindset that travels on painted walls, and tightens within you, but in blackness.
You search for the escape, from the electric theater of human bondage, but in real life you’re in tranquil slow-motion. A hundred arrows chasing after you, with a screeching imprint of words racing away, as you stand, gazing the mystery of the waves squeezing the shore, and the concrete that gives place to you seems to be salted by gravel spilled from the ovenbirds that that set ablaze the sunshine, and then crash against the pillar of your resting palms.
Stare fixed at the horizon, nose flaring at intervals in semblance to segments of broadcast news.
Standing motionless, with a psychological dream at repetition, a movie projected on a celluloid monitor like the one you saw in Ibiza, or Ljubljana, or two meters away from home. Home. Where you’re going to be next, with your heart still intact, and your veins throbbing in dull pumps of blood, but your mind flourishing in darkened colors. Soon, you will tear the folds of the paint-tube, to release a splash of paint onto the world, which is a tainted canvas, and you are its cult leader for the minutes to follow under possession.
The noose loosens? It does now.
Words that magnify ache, and oven mittens that bake pastries, devouring in the existential cartoon tragedy show, which life is, happiness being the ads that attack and invade the television, trying to brainwash you into a vortex of zero contemplation, and full-on amazement toward dance, and drinks, and laughs. The scene is set. And you box one word hitting another, until knockout – the beautiful win whereat you finished an entirety. Now, its time to publish, bask on a softened mattress, dream a little dream of tomorrow. Tomorrow. With all its sickening parties, fizzy morning espresso, and all things in between.