Written sometime in February of 2009 or so…
These words don’t come out right in translation. Between thought and verbal. As if abuse had meaning. Abuse of what? Abuse of mind? Abuse of being? Abuse of physical? Abuse of existing?
I am what I meant to be. True to self and honest in being. Your words penetrate like lions, sent out to hunt and kill. Their teeth tear at every mindset, every sense of who I thought I could have been. The blood flows and flesh becomes nonexistent as digestion takes hold. Saliva closes, like sweat when you have had enough. When you exert yourself to the point of extinction. And in evaporated moments your mind wonders and the cages begin to disappear. Are you a flower? Are you sacred in this.? Do you tell me what I need to hear? And between the ugly there is. Some light. Some sort of being. Some sort of happening wherein I can encounter. Like a mountain in creation where time clashes time and memory erases. I have no answer. I have no simple solutions. I can only sit here and play along as the rest of us pretend.
You want something. Right now. You want there to be something. You want some sort of being that cannot become. You want an answer to the reason. You want an explanation. You want to walk out of a crowded room and enter an elevator filled with forgiving. A man breathes and you can feel the comfort. A woman touches and you can feel the lust. These shadows play tricks like images portrayed of happy moments penetrated by some unknown being. We want it hard, we want it long, we want it giant and in speculation to the right to passage.
Words are like moments waiting to happen. A slight change of direction, a different sense of opinion, a spoken idea or a slight of a glance followed by an agreement. We encounter each other and hope for some thing…like…that thing…like…that one time I remember…and how I felt…and it was a first….an unknown. My heart was beating. The sky was clear. I can see stars between the windows. A radio glows green though no sound is made. I can hear you breathing. I can feel you next to me. I can tell myself that this moment is happening. And warm flows.
If I was called a creator I would say a creator of what? Of stuff? Of mental images? Of things that others want to say but don’t know how to do it? I want to take images of life and hold them forever. Photographs become. But my hand doesn’t create. These words. I can tell you what I want to say. I can share with you my thoughts. My voice doesn’t. My mouth doesn’t. My public surrounding doesn’t. I have so many occurrences where this is what I have left.
We celebrate creators from the past. Poets. Writers. Inventors. These are the people that made our world go round. Would you call them insane? At the time they would be. Would you dismiss their ideals and continue in your existence? At the time you would. This isn’t like some sort of suggestion, but an ideal. And to tell yourself that you are wrong. That what you have it’s not right. That you can do more. That we can do more.
I just want grass that passes by as I step one foot at a time. Over underground caverns filled with the hopeless. Over less than amazing existing and continuing. I do not have any answers, but I will do my best until I hear at least one person saying yes….we have come to this.