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In the plenty of carefully organized death I feel alive. Surrounded by food I'm complete. I feel welcomed. The voices of the dead speak loud and deliciously. I'm equipped with all the means to ascribe my life to the end of it, feeling the beginning, over and over, as if I can't truly understand it. It keep reappearing. I try to avert it to no avail. There was a catastrophe. It occurred while I was looking in the other direction. Always the case. I'm pressed to be assured, but no assurance can take away this feeling, the guilt of complicity.
You give me words. You feed them to me in silence. In a meditation no one might fathom for its depth, I am molded anew each day with words anyone might misconstrue as mundane, ineffectual, passing breath on a drafty plain. Then comes the forest rising in my soul. Skies bend to the earth's eruptions, to kiss the sky is to complete the earth; one elemental, life affirming frenzy. Fingers of a curious green grab at the quality you are that lives beyond this pale earth. In the vacuum of space we collect our dreams. A funny place to meet.
A pocket of breath is taken. Insinuated thoughts. They carry the gust of light thought nothing but a moment wrapped in a quaint silence. No one nearby may even suspect. We are spies in this love infection. You incite movement. I accept it. There is no hesitation. Trust is complete. My life can be a puddle for the satisfaction of sun reflecting your eyes looking down to see what lies beneath the wondering what lies beneath, and seeing the core, if for only a millisecond, and I am there, falling into this wonder, this sight, this light. We belong. One.
All the way through the end of wishing comes a bright epiphany in the sudden distillation of that which could only glimpsed by the flashbulb of creation, what resonates to the eclipse of being alive enough to know its death, as inevitable as breathing, this new visitation might be singled out, your child, your offspring, however you deem its beingness, this new life, bubbled from the compost; as from a mist of decay, it rises from the vat of soul, the spirit's crucible. What face it wears will mark its beginning. What face you give it will mark its death.
We leave expectations at our door to feed the dreams left behind to guide a hand out of question to pick the food of the day. In a doghouse, of sorts, we arrange a colorful pack of ministrations picked for popular affect. The feeding is held at bey. In a grounding, the fight for supremacy declares its war. Forward of the ceiling, by which the clarity of the piece is shaved down for simplicity, the head of its body rolls down the lane. We all watch to see how many pins go down. It rarely even comes close to them.
Cracked body marks itself. A stain widens in mind. You can see a plain of blood like black moss stretch from the bead in head, where the tiger is eaten by the moon, to the edge of a reality that barely meets the light with solidity. You can feel it. It's yours to touch. Isolation breeds this one blessing. It's life in a margin, a tight fitting of what's real and what's not. In your head there's no difference. There was a time when you thought you could escape this edition. That time is past. The room is your manuscript.
It's still in me. In the center; smug, indifferent, a voluble smirk, a deviant chesire-like blot in the blood, on a raft of its own devising, a meticulous machination, built over years of biting back countermeasures. On a roll, roaring. The river of red is wide and welcoming. The pitted body, mine, a deep, serpentine canyon under the blinded sun. The insurgent takes its time, marks the walls, a poisonous hieroglyph, but its secrets are safe by insinuation. In a closed eye I can feel the colorful infection, with its broad disguises, make for the stage, a crazed jester.
Sometimes it's all about finding this one thing, a lost puzzle piece, grain of sand. It can possess one, overtake one. On the journey you'll delve into mystery after mystery, confronting myriad faces, each one perhaps the one face, the one person, the one mind that'll reveal the secret, but what if there's no secret? What if this great search is all a ruse for a greater thing, something underneath it all, beneath the lies and subterfuge. Perhaps, when all is done, when exhaustion pares you to the limit, you'll finally find it, and see you've known it all along.
I feel my heart. It grows with you and nothing for granted. The sky is pierced bright through your eyes in mine. The fissured blood swells with a health no granting of mind could form. In each moment, I take stock, and nothing of you for granted. On the arc of day you're in my gestures. There is nothing spanned by muscular intent that moves without you in its electricity. I'm lit by you. For need of living I'm given what I never imagined. I fit myself to the widening day by your love for me and mine for you.
Its fingers play in the soil, dissemble its crusty demeanor. Emotions dig harmony from despair, lay it out in the wind, caressed by the skies, whooping its flower to a bloom that could blast hate from its ardors. I take to the cue, bend with the fallout. I'm combined with the fluster. I meet the hag-about to deride what complacency might infect me in the loose moments inside the rain, and I dissolve happily, massaged so to the core I can bleed my angst without fear or guilt. I clasp its fingers and dance to fete the timeless time.
It's running away. The doors are open. Forgetfulness has punched the dog in its house, and we're laying ourselves down for a bakery run. We're gonna get baked. There's no way around it. Each of us has a mark on our stock. The way to the world's satisfaction is through the mechanism of its myriad bakeries. We are born to be baked, those of us who know the way out is the way in. I've tried so hard in so many ways to avoid this inevitable fate, but it's no use. I'm resigned to it. It's running away. Gotta go.
Make it simple. Divide off complexities, shear away the fat; render it sleek, smooth, easy on the mind's eye. Let it live on its own. Watch it live or die. That's the measure of it. In its form it'll move through the mess of conflicts to occupy its own, or not. To find the core of it, heart of it, you'll need to work it hard, throw it through the harshest storms. If you find a beacon in the end, a light shining through the murk, you will have found something. By beating it, you will have given it life.
It goes and goes. Jelly rolls. A flip of the design, and we have Meatloaf singing a strained love song. In a barn of sorts that might pass for a castle, an ancient story is being retold by a dutiful teacher who loves to please her class of long dead mariners sitting on old stumps brought in from the Black Forest, just to please the primary benefactor, who's identity is as carefully concealed as Gatsby, while throwing his lavish parties for the jelly roll eating crowd who love to drown their sorrows in somebody else's water fountain. Such is life.
There's a path to you. It lies on many landscapes of divergent dimensions. You are in a place of all places and all times. You move in an order of your own choosing that cannot be predicted. There is no one place or time where you can be found. I'm looking for you. I've been on the search for you since I realized you existed. I will not rest till I find you. In the bath of my existence I am surrounded by possibilities, chances of seeing you, though I'm not sure you can be seen or felt, just known.
I take a moment to consider it. It fans out. A billion, trillion moments skitter off the scattergram of my eye on its core burning vistas as fireworks compelling me to blindness; how such sight might infect my mind to the fury of beingness beyond the rote, in its function to balance dues in the checkbooks we carry as wallpapers of the world, wherein we dip our flesh, might devolve the obvious for the righteousness of everything and reveal our true reality. How we deny our everything for the meager something we hoard that only gives meaning to our deaths.
Who can I say? What or when? Shall it happen again? Of course. We do nothing disguised as something, bantering law change while the battles rage, the guns flare. Maximum casualties are a plus. You win with the most killed. It's the driving impulse, win, win, win! Gotta win over the other guy, and that means you gotta kill him. Nothing changes, except the games. They get more colorful. The red never looked so real. Blood is black. No one really knows this. It's funny to point out, but you can see it in a thousand videos online. Just look.
I saw you on the edge of myself in a dark moment lit by wonder that such a soul might inhabit space with such ease. I saw you take the moment apart, digest its momentum and present me lightly as your source of merriment and joy. I found myself in this cup of light as a seed might find itself in the loam of mother earth being fed her water and sun to become this thing no one could imagine until it touched the sky with its majestic fingers. How I play in the light is your gift to me.
You fell up a strange swing. I caught you on the cusp of up and down. There you floated, as if forever, hung in a stasis, knowing not which way to fly. If one could ask for such a gift to be stilled, found motionless, as we are in walkaday functions from here to here, momentarily, on a path independent function with numerous variables. We catch the bag as it catches us. There's humor there, pathos too. I could find a reason to bypass, but why would I do that? Why would I miss the chance to fly without moving?
I slow myself to see, and space splits. My path becomes a question. Intention is put to the test. I'm devolved to the challenge of finding the reason to assume my place in a place that's become dislodged. I am a living question. This excites me and scares me. Perplexity abounds in any subsequent gesture. Nothing feels right. Everything is possible. I am free and bound at once. So, to the test I submit myself. There may be nothing to gain but the very reason for me. We all look for that reason. It lives or dies with our willingness.
Exaltation lives under my skin. It only needs a reason. The trigger is in my heart. I need to find it. I lost it somewhere during the war I waged with myself. It was a long war. Many casualties. I survived, but not without loss. I gained the sight to see my place was insecure. It had always been insecure. Security was an illusion, but what isn't? So I find my food. It's what I can do. I find my bed. It's where I give up. I love living by surrendering. I win by giving up. Getting is an illusion.
I'm sitting in a moment waiting for it to expand. The largess explicitly defies my desire. In the round of a great mind, I'm merely a functional part, a cog in a massive face machine designating identities for the love of discrimination. It really holds itself above the radical moral question, is there a reason for death to be an enemy? Can it not become a friend? One does not hold with forces that strip away ego, mask identities with fears of losing self. A patchwork costume suits the wearer to their ultimate confrontation with the one question never asked.
What can we say how we devolve to the moment we finally understand why we were born? How could that moment distinguish itself over all other moments that cry out for our attention? There's stigma in this kind of moment. It tells us we aren't worthy of it. Somehow we are to move past it, ignore it, be assured that it was an accident, if anything. Shall we go this way, or shall we take another route? Past all good reasons to the contrary, I'm in favor of the new route. I am. I was, and I shall be forever.
Fighting against the wind inside, I feel myself pulling away from myself. It has a bright face, this wind. It has a voice all its own. I hear it whispering in my ear, roars, the ratchet sound of iron scraping against iron. I feel the sparks elicited. They are my thoughts to point, how I'm being ground into a new metal, forged anew by some other entity. I am curious to see what it has in store. My shape is my vessel. I've grown used to its anomaly. Now, I'm to be given another. This will tell a fascinating story.
It has to be worth it. When we fall to the bead of intent in our tireless search for the kernel of truth sought, however we seek it, be it in the wild outside our domain of flesh and soul, or within the sacristy of our self-made mind that diverges from the patterns we've adopted to recognize ourselves when no one else wants to, it is our pleasure to get lost, that rare gift we give to ourselves, a palliative to the heart's eye from the pressures of the watching world, a gift we're willing to die to possess.
How many times can you say a person's name until you really find that person in the breath you exhaled? They're there. You need to find them. They've already found you. A name lives in your heart. It possesses a key only you can work. Can you look at this name and see beyond it, or is it too frightening? Is it too dangerous to collect the sum of this name and enter it into your eye? Shall this name be forgotten or relegated to the dead letter bin? No. This name will stay. This name will live. It's mine.
Should this be a good day to die? Cut the sentimental shit, okay! I got the urge, the inner pickle to become something other than. In my eye, I see the image of the inverse comedy of me. It isn't funny. Regarding the heart of such a reversal you need to place your attention on where you don't want to go, because that's where you'll go. Efforts made to draw a different picture of the event that happened already in an infinite variety of styles, is a futile act of love. You may want it, but you won't get it.
Acts of love by reversals are common if you go where the impulse drives you when sleep overtakes your ability to reason. That's the place where the heart of the heart can pump its verve into the mind you can only imagine when you're awake. It's a deep need of the soul to find itself. One can say, that's bullshit, pure new age crap, but isn't it funny that when one gets closer to the truth, the naysayers seem to come out of the woodwork? We have that challenge before us. That's the real issue, and it ain't goin anywhere.
I take myself as far as I can. I stretch to reach an end, always another end. There's no end to the ends. They meet each other. The inner coils meet the outer coils. It's like that, you see, a continuous mobius contraption. The beginning strives to match itself to my desires, but it has to embrace those desires first at the end. One could be impressed by this if one weren't so affected by it. The process builds one up and tears one down. In the middle one tries to keep from becoming two or more. It's the life.
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