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We begin again. You and I are made for a special kind of storm. The end is a shapeless fear; it has no substance, no reality. Let those, addicted to the end, have their time with fear. Let them masturbate on sexy destruction. We are always beginning. Each day. Now, a new year, the first day of a new river. We flow. Our boat is a continual deconstruction, as is the river. We design the effects. We are the effects. Magic and magicians, bound in a rising flume of ideas, spiritual tornado. Dorothy comes and goes. We stay. We belong.
One sinks into a night with no hope of day. A face rises in a dream state. It looks over you. You feel it hover about you. It's connected to you, but you cannot touch it. You feel it move. It has a plan. A montage of scenes plays out in your photoshop mind on a wide screen. You are alone in the dark theatre. The film has no beginning. It has no end. The story feels familiar. You wish you could place it. In the end you do. The face is watching you from the back. You are powerless.
Really, you say those words. They bounce off each other. There's a stupid of leaping verbs in the belly of your wilderness. I can value that wasteland as a place to lose myself in, to become a part of its perpetual motion, loose my own words to the chaos, feel the connectivity become like glue of an unseen sort, be the tissue of our communication. I am deep in the heart of this imaginary desert. It feeds me, as I feed it. A cycle I can have; one that no one may steal or spy. A world of our own.
It's swollen. There's no stopping it. One can wish for a way to divert the road toward the inevitable, make an exit onto a lonely country road out and drive out into the boondocks next to a closed diner and see a craft from another galaxy land. That could be something viable, an option to take, to obsess over, even use to create a TV series. The flesh is expanding. You can feel it, see it, smell it, lay bets on how big the disease will become, then the end, whatever end may come, will suit someone, but mostly you.
It's not for my taste. I'm not one to shy away from trying something new. I like that kind of adventure, but this? No. I'm afraid I have to use another corner of my room. There are too many ovens in my brain already. Nowhere to dispose of the necessary sacrifices. I did my best to arrange my home. I knew what was coming, what I'd have to consider. This is quite another thing. One might say it was expected. I can attest to that. I can't go there. I'm sorry. I have shut down on you, make you silent.
Can it not suck? Is that a possibility? Can we maybe try to make that a reality? What option can we vie for, what manner of manipulation can we construct to keep it close to the idea we started out with? Is this what we have now? Is this the complex of issues we have to wrestle? I think it wants us dead. We came into the fold with a grand idea. In the beginning it seemed possible. Even while we gobbled up the days collecting visuals and sounds, it felt right, inevitable. Not so now. Something went wrong. Askew.
The face of rain changes with every minute in the drops preceding drops preceding makeshift skies held to be our dome where the sun and moon play at stars for their supremacy. It's the need of the mind to find an escape where possible when you're clapped in the corner bound by trapped eyes ready to do anything as a way of escape. You look up to the sky for release. It's the natural thing to do. In the sky there's convenient mystery. You can find your place, inhabit this mystery. You no longer need to be afraid to die.
I sat under the torrent. It was comfortable. I could hear people screaming at me to come back inside. They were yelling. I couldn't make out what they were yelling. I let the torrent flow over and through me. It felt good. I no longer felt the need to fight it. I no longer felt it was wrong. I allowed it in. I let it flow. I could feel it move through me. I was only afraid for the first few moments. I saw many wide eyes looking on in terror. I smiled. I took the match, struck it. Fire.
It's easy to let go when you get to the point of letting go. You do it. You don't think. Thinking took a lot of time. You did that for years. Where did it get you? Were you stronger at the end of it? Perhaps. It led you to the brink where there was no turning back. The choice was vivid, stark. You couldn't deny it, push it away, turn it into something else, something that it wasn't. You knew it was time. You stared ahead into the void. It scared you once. Now it feels inviting, your new home.
Once a home, now a wasteland. No one lives there anymore except for the bodies. The bodies inhabit the spaces. They move as they need to move to do whatever they need to do to stay in one place. Gas flares light up dank evenings. Fires reflect off the oily pools linking room to room licking at the remaining flesh waiting to decay. Bodies float on those pools on rafts of a desperate, insatiable hunger. Eyes have dimmed to pinpoints of black. One can find their way if they hitch a ride on those rafts. Home is a dead museum.
I was afraid of this. I knew it would happen. Recourse was impossible; many devoted time to discussing it. There was no recourse. It was set up to be this way. There was no other way to be. I could smell the rising tumult. Everyone could. It was inescapable. At some point I wrestled with the idea all of this was an illusion, that I was still in my bed when I was seventeen; my father was sitting over me holding my head as I shook with the fever that almost killed me. No use. It was time to die.
Sadness creeps forward. It infects like a virus, slowly, inexorably, gloriously. It draws the life from the infected willingness to die. A hazard has formed in the mist. I can see it forming, an amorphous shape, something gargantuan, something ugly and beautiful at the same time. Is it my friend? Is it my enemy? It's a disease of a different sort, a disease with consciousness. I can don that head for my own when I put it aside for survival. This is important. I am sad. I am glad. I am everything necessary to make my bed for another day.
He stands apart. You tell yourself you're not like that, you couldn't do that. Are you sure? Can you not put yourself in the boxed place under that special dome of dark, idiosyncratically yours, where such gestures might occur, where thoughts and fantasies become reality, even in the smallest of ways? You say you're not like him. He was sick, an animal, unfeeling, lacking any semblance of conscience, and you'd be right. Are you so right about yourself? When you dive to the depths as he did, even in a fleeting flash of fiery darkness, can you not see yourself?
It's vital you craft your sensibilities beyond how or what; this is the path on which you'll lose. Craft the why, but do it without without indication, without a face. Note it in the background only. In the background you can attend to a place no one must know exists. It is yours alone to mold. This could frighten or excite. There's no telling how you will conform to it. It might be an ally. It might be a foe. It might be both; it's often both. You can juggle the extremities at will. This is your pleasure and pain.
Time goes by filling itself with me filling myself with the idea of time being a reality instead of the lie, the illusion that it is, taunting us with the power of that lie, power of deceit turned to a fashionable cake decorated for the wedding we were all invited to, given a free pass to cheer when the cue came to cheer. We did as we were told. We still do as we're bidden. There's no option. It bears down on the reality of our unreality, of the illusion over us leering with a garish clock face, tick, tock.
I felt the tide moving toward the edge where I waited. I was loathe to move, felt it was my duty to stay rooted to the spot that held expectations for a revelation to undo the knots I held inside my mind afixed to an image of my epiphany. This was the zenith toward which all of my actions had been aimed. I was told by the voices deep inside me I was doing the right thing. How terrible it is to suddenly realize those voices were liars. Nonetheless, I stayed. Stubborn to a fault, I couldn't bring myself down.
It jumps to and fro, my spring heeled spirit in search of the game that could tame the brain to the insane face behind the idea of the face, designing a mind that could hold its own on a raft in purest void of dreams, such is the luxury of being mad under the guise of soft toned sanity. The heart moves along the curving mind like a snail on a rock licked with lichen, sucking food with its foot, turning effort into hot blood, the blood of intent. I go as I go. This has to be my way.
A penny for your thoughts, I'm lost. The map I have is wrong, I think. Let me see. You think right. I will give you my thoughts. This is the way. Are you sure? Yes, follow me, and I will show you. I thought I knew where I was going. A lot of people think they knew. I will tell you how to get to where you're going. I've helped many. You'll see. Okay. I'll go. You sound so certain. I like the sound of certainty. I like how you smile with such authority. I will soothe your pain. Follow.
Sacred profanity in his hand wielded the necessary instruments guided by his heart full of a need that defied explanation, circumscription or demand. It held its own as its own in the ministrations carried out in the dark to light the dark, to give the darkness eyes, hands, legs, arms, a body to move amongst the adepts. In the whorl that became his world, chaotic and extreme, serving all that exceeds, quashes and obliterates expectations, he moved beyond the norm defined by all boundaries laid down to suppress the deepest expressions. It is this that drives me on toward eternity.
You see in the window what you see. There's a wide expanse. There are people, entities of all sorts walking about. You came to the window to see what you might see. And you saw. It could be nothing else or everything. You are the master of your seeing, and you work to see what you are bidden to see. This is your path. You believe in this path. It guides you. Some might say you're delusional, a nutter. No matter. This is your path. You see what you see. It's your gift to yourself, truth or lies. A question.
I could've taken my hand off my desire but I would've lost the chance I'd been waiting for my whole life. The key was not letting go. I had it. It came to me in a gust of wind, a flash of light, a happenstance I could never have predicted. I didn't know what to do. I looked through the window that opened. I saw myself, before and after. The landscape was laid out clearly. I couldn't tell if it was desolation or a field of new grain. It was up to me to make a clear decision. I decided.
The course has been laid out. We've chosen to follow it. It's tricky. No one can tell us how to make it through. No one else has been through it. It's our course. The curriculum will be determined precisely. It's not in your hands. It's not our responsibility. Our responsibility is to follow, nothing more, nothing less. Couldn't be simpler, correct? Couldn't be harder, correct? Yes and yes. We are on the way. I like not knowing. I like the going. I love it that we are together in this. We'll find many things. We'll lose many things. Our way.
It's time to find myself again. The cracks widen. I'm oblivious. I feel indomitable. Nothing can sway me. Nothing can trap me. Nothing can make me slip. Into a weird void I find myself looking for a key for a door that doesn't exist but for the wish. I find myself geared on a landscape without features. I create the features I so desperately need, then I lean. In a sense I'm safe, though the inevitable fall tells me otherwise. It's an odd blend of knowing and not knowing, of playing a game of Russian roulette. I like the game.
By the ineluctable fall of days I mark the passing age of my age, tripping off the ticks and tocks with fascination. Need isn't without its fashionable gloss. Truth's on the outside, right? The skin and its shape delineates our truth. We are bade to live in a welter of lies. They shape us. They tell us where to look for credibility. We are bound to watching ourselves fade away, bound to the necessity of being aware of our inability to make the grade. So I fall outside of this formula. I fall without caring how I fall. I laugh.
Impervious to the curling reality, indifferent more like, ascribed to a fantasy fulfilling a need to be as you always are; change being the bad guy. You gotta stay where you are, but where you are never stays. The object becomes the subject. Where you're headed is where you've been, back to front, side to side, all the matters in between to an nth power deforming, forming, shaping as it will the reality of its sensibility, being no sensibility at all, but the fact of space, an infinite confusion of geometries, situated as they go as they go, indifferent, unmoved.
This might be what I've been looking for. I can see it becoming clearer, but the more I approach, the more it recedes. It looms, as it gets smaller in my mind. I feel it as it surrounds me, but I cannot see it or touch it. How I perceive it is how I miss it. If I could only stop trying to see it, feel it, maybe I might become it. To be myself as I am, bereft of names, labels, designations of place, time and expectation, is a dream, and as a dream, the only way to assimilate.
The party to come is the party that was. I approach the house as I move away from it. I can feel my host's handshake saying hello as I say goodbye. Rivers. Lights parading as waves, currents flowing in every direction illuminate the underlying contradictions, conceive a delightful crush of antonyms for the same event, same thing, same collection of objects you deem familiar. Moving from one point to the next, not so simple, but simple as breathing? I'd like to say yes, but I'm saying no simultaneously. Being aware of reality's multiplicitous face won't help you on the SAT.
Of course I did it. How could I not do it? The effect of not doing would have repercussions felt across the universe, its past, present and future. I am here now. You see me. Do you really see me? Perhaps it's the idea of me that actually tantalizes you, draws you in. No matter. You are here nonetheless, and so am I in my fashion. I made a gesture toward you. You took it in stride. I was pleased you took it. We're enjoying the same dream. Inevitably we'll both fade away. The gesture will remain. It is us.
Every month is the same end times. I could bray it out on the street corner, but no one would listen. Why would they? They have different end times. It depends upon their point of view. Everyone has one of those, and of course, everyone's right. No need to look for agreement, let alone consolidation. This is the situation we've created. I look to my own. I keep my eyes riveted on my path. Now, it's coming again, and I'm afraid. Can't explain that fear. It just is. Month in, month out. I'm hoping for a change. Maybe next month.
You and I, we send our wishes into a face that randomly mutates. We must conform to that face or face the consequences. The face of facing off the consequences divides our sensibilities into infinite tones. There's no reason, no why; it just is. We are in a game with no end and no beginning. We are are the start and the finish. We've completed our lives. We are just starting. We are on the highways between these polarities. How does it feel to realize you've devoted your entire life to a delusion? That nothing is true; everything is permitted.
Perhaps I have nothing to say. I'm confronted with a request for words, but there are none. They live inside me somewhere. They keep counsel with themselves. I often feel them conspiring against me. I can feel the mounting tension, the incipient riot. All that's needed is a misplaced punctuation, an errant comma, angry semicolon, a derivative point of departure of rhetoric that lacks proper syntax, and I'll be gone in the welter of words for no reason with no reason. A loose cannon will have his way. I'll be his diver. I'll note his actions. I'll keep his counsel.
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