Putting his best foot first off the ledge of the bed, As the sun slowly glistened outside, Striking its rays at the ground in installments, The tired bed-covers hugged the floor, And he arranged his feet level to the door. His habits reflected conditions, And he practiced life like it was his religion. What felt strange then was the complicated information; The distance between him and the door, Could be the same as him and his past. If it was locked in dimensions of numerical measurements, And pensive estimations. Maybe all that was suspended between today and yesterday, Was a brick bedded bridge. He made his way back to then. And he held the door undone for a while, He was open for the time. Don't let him see through the clocks, Now running races before his eyes, He twisted their arms to meet, and to lap over one another, And when what he was winding was wound, What he was finding was found. The separation and space, Was a little more than his legs could fathom without numbing. So, he went back to sleep, In his favorite place, Next to the sunrise, Wearing water on his skin.
A reckless mind in a restless body, he seeked answers. In the beginning it was about the end, In the end, it became about his start. He dove heart first into the sea, His knees grew in neap tides, and he rose an illuminating height. Gazing at the blazing vapors of water, Orange, And unapologetic. It seemed a vehicle. To disappear, Into the wild, wild blue. And he gently turned and pushed back the hands of the sea, Aching to embrace him, And he divided waves with his fingertips, Parting currents, To reach the shore. Then he heard the quiet whispers of the fluttering waters, And he listened closely, Connecting the words into a glistening circuit, That sparked and powered a fluctuating sequence of his answers. There was a story; a mystery under the flaps of each time, And he would slowly exhale the dust fastened to it, As he lived a life, And as he stood with himself, When he searched for happiness. Then he would know, Where his solace flows.
I can feel the scratches unravelling something of saddening depth, as I try to claw my way out of things I have exits for. What am I doing? I’m being loud, so you can listen, I’m being silent, and so you can taste the outlines of fine print when you search for prayers, and answers here without repetitive interruptions.
I’ve pressed my chest against the hallway, and there are the blaring sounds bouncing off the walls, straight into my ears, and it seems to hurt. They’re only and always echoes. I start to fiend for the source, I push my shoulders towards the wall and my abdomen forward, I raise myself and walk freely towards the door. I walk free. As if there is no magnet in my mind that’s attracting the metallic stiffness of fucked-up daydreams, which have been washing in to make a brain beach, which I can’t touch or reach, and don’t have the courage to explore or imagine. But in the end the source, a goddamn thought, seems pointless, and dishonest, so I settle down on the floor, I lean into the air and bow my forehead to the ground, I urge my blood to recede off my fingers, to make them numb as I cradle my nostrils, and fiddle with my shoelaces. The receding blood rushes intimately through my body, there’s a focus region, its large, and it hits me from angles, that I’m too attached to envision and I……..
“I pray to catch you whispering, I pray you catch me listening”
It’s a first-class, second-hand word to live by. And I do get high off the sound, and I mingle tears and soda, and I combine some informational spit into the medley as I began to stomach it. Sometimes I think I’m an addict of my prison, maybe because I built it, and my fascination towards its design is my self-absorption. It’s strange what I’m doing right now.
His naked eyes were stripping further into blindness, but not before watching the answer to his call.
His call for help.
As he stood in the middle of the road, the wind seemed to draw in from corners, reaching slowly once, then quickening and ripping toward him from every direction. It ceremonially roared and rotated before touching him, now holding him in an unreal clutch.
The air became forceful to push it’s way out of the crowd, toppling other particles to grasp the sky, reaching reaching. And the storm then deflected. Still with eyes on him.
He was untouched then. But lost. And he heard knocks and sirens, as if he was being divinely crazed alone. Life continued. Without him.
And he stared into the twisting, turning sky, sipping seas, the sun blinking and blazing in flutters of the dawn, as it submarined across the desolation soaked storm.
Uneasy darkness settled but only in him. He could see people flashing torch lights and lanterns around the translucent walls of the wind, chasing after one another. They were speaking of the news, and new apartments, and openings in ozone, and if their was life on Mars. Nobody knew.
A brave design marked his brain. And he crossed his mind with strength, knowing he didn’t have a lot, reading into an existence of his own. Operating in the future, he would be more sure of the unknown, and prepared and repaired for all that has been and will.
“There’s an incessant greed to take, pushing up on me, and cornering me into dangerous edges of my capacities, aiming doubts along the black and white outlines, keeping me from inching away into different places, each fading day, softening, loosening away from time, and circling around the bottom of my head, lifting my mind in watery uprising. And me being descriptive of it, fronting my personal revelation, the intimate revolution that is cycling around my lips as I breathe into decisive space, gazing at the ghost lost in my reflection, slowly emerging in urgent reaches of my fingers, seems spastic and loud, an escape. So much definition crawls around when we dream, and our mind loses threads that connect to the puppet that is our body, accomplishing compromises, and promises. But in the end, when the sun sets, and the sky dims, something whirls and twirls and spins, I can feel it rushing in, its heartlessly inevitable, and it washes into me, an ocean of my realizations, and my identity starts to surface another time. Then I know, as I embrace the secrets and the flawed laws of myself, that there are bridges to construct, and the work that goes behind it won’t have me losing my mind, and if lost, its someplace I can find. And I can grow, and not grow blind”
Hiding behind the sunrise,
A reflection whose hands stretch to the night,
While the day rests on his chest.
Him and I, we have common comforts.
As he gambles his eyes to shadows to travel into sleep,
I don’t let him leave me behind,
Because everything has darkened into a pitch-black sky,
There’s nothing here for me anymore,
And I don’t want to be on my own.
A promise summersaults on the string to which I have him tied,
And an escape is not flying in the open for him to create or find.
We become runaways,
Running from all the signs,
Searching for warnings on people’s mouths,
Arresting holy war,
Scratching visions of the road on the walls.
There’s something there for me, places and people,
On these counted cards,
So I shelve him and them on the corner of every chance,
Now, I’ll never be alone.
It felt like everything had moved elsewhere like thin paper at the first contact of water. Shrunk away.
Soon, the anguish was gone, his ashy arguments narrated once in sounds that twirled like swirling gusts of air, now enclosed in bubbles that would shatter violently at everyones sighs. He was left neglected.
Silence conquered the territories that once kept him proud, emptied his heart, flooded his mind with infesting taints of agony, of a hollow eyed longing. He lost himself.
Regret started to crawl in old photographs, and behind each mirror was a blackening memory, necrotic and wilting, like petals curling up in their final hours. Time began a changing image, infected by habits, a running movie in which he chased himself away, into rivers of tragic returns.
His hands would gnaw at pages, his lips would recite promises of the past, dreams that vanished into what seemed like another life. A head full of compelxteies that was mingling with blood and seeping into his shuttered mouth, flowing into fingers mounted atop static legs, body ungiving.
And he tried, and he cried, he broke loose into shards that blanketed the floor that made troubles bleed into its fractures.
There’s empty, open spaces once where things used to float about.
And those things were clinging to each word I said, and hiding in everything unsaid, and unseen.
Now, all my dusty daydreams are clearing away to make banks, and all hope washes in and takes away parts of it and flows downward.
If I follow this river and search for myself, will I see myself as a shadow on a surfaced rock, or will I see myself at the bottom floundering with all my life?
Could I see the sky then, is that the persistence of hope? Of dreams?
As I chase after myself, gazing hungrily at all I took down in my watery disappearance, will I have new things to keep?
Will I tire and breathlessly rest against the dusty beach of those things?
I’m coasting away, and yet still circling the same surrounding.
Over time, real time, life has segmented me in sides and faces with very vague definitions. I sense that there are things about me that are routinely yet obscurely fed to a vending machine which gives me newer passions, different interests in return. Maybe I can trace it back to “when” but “why” is draped in nights when I lay awake with a dream in mind, and the next morning seems to blur it into a background that slowly fades into wallpaper that needs to be torn down because it’s just not as pretty anymore.
I know what you mean.
December raises the downy hair of yesterday on the back of my neck. No embrace for the girl of that calendar month, just a sigh of resignation and despair that rustles all the other pages of the calendar. A whole year of good intentions and failed dreams that cling so desperately to that wall and under my skin. It’s like the realisation that last New Year’s hope was just an impulsive mistake and I forgot if I even made any resolutions.
And it becomes an yearly abstraction, a push that plummets fractions, breezeblocks, out of an otherwise linear tower of reality. I look back at the lost pieces, and with what may be an illusion of growth, smile. That ache seems so small, unimportant, and what I have now seems okay for a minute. Maybe longer. Depends on the length of the song I listen to, and the longevity of the setting sun.
I can only say it in a whisper but this year has magnified the aches that have lingered for a lifetime. There’s a desperation in looking for the missing pieces in the fading colours of the sunset. In the hungry chaos of noisy gulls, I try to collect my crowded thoughts into groups of words that might ease my chapped lips and pour my coffee in the morning. I string them into necklaces and charms made of sentences – poems of moonless Septembers and melancholy Sundays. That way I can at least look at the dawn without shielding my eyes.
There is something about words strung together in a sensible philosophy. Its incomparable to have had times in your life that sharpens its blunt edges and cuts into parts of you, refreshes everything somehow, and becomes strange to look at. Like gawking at your reflection on the mirror plated wall of a hair salon, while the barber keeps trimming your hair in a really bad way but all you can do is investigate your face and strike your eyes with a gaze they obviously meet. Just to realize, that it’s all there what needs to be, what isn’t, will grow back with more original strands and fibres. There’s always a road to walk towards everywhere, and since ‘all roads lead to Rome’, why does anybody worry.
As we nudge December I look at the ocean and ask it this question. Sometimes my catastrophic mind is too primed to see the tragedy in a gust of wind, to tread water when I need to swim more purposefully to my metaphoric Rome. The sea answers me in soothing syllables of its rolling tides, calmly led by sing-song directions from the moon. And there I see that maybe there is a path for me, that I am connected by gossamer threads to possibilities I have always longed for but never thought I’d find. Love, even. I just need to dive in and let the wind swallow up my caution and taste the salty water of the dawn.
The sea has all the answers, it’s like a friend for all seasons. It’s funny to think that whatever is marked by anything doesn’t make sense to anything except the candle and the lighter, or the sea and the rocks it washes away from the shoreline. So, we ramble on and gamble with our hearts, and tear pages, anatomies away from old chapters and our memories become a collage of these broken bones. So, in our search for love and happiness, we see too many disappointment and aches but to not linger on them would be best. At least, that’s what I think.
So maybe as the clock ticks this time, we should linger in that place where soft lanterns and gentle hands light and guide the darkened alleys of our hearts. Maybe it’s in that dim but shimmered glow that we find a stillness and a beauty. A calm within our storms where there is no pitch black or bright white and there is an infinite wave of connections between all of us. Because surely, it seems that this is where we should linger, in that place where the paths lead us to each other.
May everyone lead 2020 with brilliant direction!
Vanishing to the last degree, disappearing in the empty streets, Sweeping ashes into angles with his bare feet, He circled the window panes, as he crossed many lanes, And reached a place between the river and the concrete front. The spare colors in the darkness of the hour, In the desperation of his sighs, from the air he devoured, Shone brightly in the direction of the flowers, As memories replayed themselves in between his eyes, And they painted his dreams with stories of the past, Which he then fastened to his mind, then in his veins last, Lies, secrets, and shadows that he crossed with ties, and truth, With all its marriages- To the sea of vast blues, To a stand of the news, To the view of the sky, And his last goodbyes.