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.
“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”