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I feel as though my heart may burst. The time has come and gone. Waiting kept waiting for the time to gravitate to home, but it only diverted the path to some otherwhere. I'm grounded in a place I don't recognize, yet I feel sure footed, confident. I should feel uncertain, insecure, but I don't. My heart is strong. My head is clear. This must be the place I was destined to find. There's something here I need to discover. When I find it, I'll be closer to finding the truer home that I see in my mind, I'm certain.
Spinning around the idea of home comforts the germ of me sitting comfortably inside a place that no one can touch, a place, sacrosanct and secure, the place of becoming me as I wish. Decisions are mine and mine alone. They affect no one, not even me. I'm allowed this in my secret place of home. It is a wonderful feeling to be so confident in this solitude. Nothing may intrude. I'm the one who guides the idea of guiding, yet I do not guide a thing. I know the truth of it. That's okay. Something else is in control.
So it goes. This elusive thing that I identify as me controls the game. I set it up. I should be grateful. I'm the gamer who games with myself. My control is my certainty, yet there is no certainty. That's certain. The game decides. It changes every time I play. Every day I awaken to a new playing board. It was designed that way. Around every move there exists a jack-in-the-box possibility. I like this dynamic. I hate this dynamic. I loathe the idea that hate and love are so interchangeable. What sits in the center, watches.
This the way the world turns inside out. It turns as it turns to something that will blind me in the end. There's no sun inside the world. I'm beset with feelings of dire responsibilities I cannot name. These feeling intensify the closer I get to catching the fish. I've been in this boat for a long time. I was told this was the place to catch the whoppers. That's yet to happen. I'm not going to turn the channel just yet. I'm scared that if I blink the channel will change. That's the chance we take in the dark.
I pitch myself to a point within, and I see what I see. Vistas open their mouths. They chew me through to their beauty, and I fall to the source. Gearing my energies, I can feel the quality of darkness meet the quality of light. Like chocolate swirl vanilla ice cream I am lost to its sweet and sour. This is who I am, I boldly declare to no one. Can I be held to the expectations of the world when I can't even meet my own? There was something lost when I gained the freedom to find this point.
Shall it mean more than it means less to me? Must I present myself as an advocate for a cease and desist order, press for a mussel on the mouth of the mad hatter presently in charge? What's not mad here? How have we come to this place? I reply, how could we not have come to this place? We are who we've diligently created in our private laboratories on the most high alter of this fading empire of lies. We have become those very beings that we would normally and happily scurry past with eyes averted in a madhouse.
Sound sizing down the whipping air, white faces laughing crazily, spilling the stream gusts off drunken tangles of blind humans, I can hear the whispers under screams, they tell me a lot; flashes of light in the muddy darkness pool at uncertain feet, pulling them down to a proper level. We should be thankful for this remonstration of nature, giddily chastising our dissipative hubris bellowing down the streets like a mad crier howling out the enemy's approach to unconscious ears buried in gluttony deep in glittering graves, proud to be dead to anything that bodes of actual life.
The burial of the mind in a heap of human trash, a body of disease wracked like cancer from the base heart vessel to the inevitable loam calling him home. He aches to banish himself. A clutter through the motion reveals a head not seen, a body unseen, a soul discarded. Perhaps the visage of a face drawn from a youth long forgotten pesters the eye. If one could draw their time down to a single point where the intemperate calm evaporates he might yet be alIve. Even so, dead. How could you not see this, feel this, ear this?
We feel it coming to a head. The sight is marvelous. The head begins to grow. Thoughts alien to your fine disposition become the best pictures as they spread form the center, fanning out above, below, and all around. You are the creator of a new sky. The earth finds the sky its best disguise. How to dress a lie is the way one can abduct the truth. It is held without ransom in a dark space of your mind reserved for such a thing. You cannot hold back. What's best for you is now best for all. Polite tyranny.
Travails. I'm fond of them. Candies. They sweeten my life in a whirlwind of disfavor. I can dismiss my attitude as crass when the sky falls, as it does in my worst moods, but when the travails hit my mouth and release their bright flavors I can rest a bit. The dog is let out. I'm alone with the temptations. No matter. The sweets take me down. I no longer have to fear being left out to dry. There's no possibility of loneliness. I can be finally alone and be at peace with it, me and my candies, my travails.
Indescribable. Indefinite paradise syndrome. I got the number for the pleasure bucket. One can hear the fluids swirling. I'm tempted to grab what I can and run to the nearest one. It has to be better than what I've got! She said I'd really enjoy it. Didn't believe her, at first. Into the shed of my mind I'll keep the goods close to my chest. When the time comes I'll unburden myself. It'll all go very quickly. I'm confident the plan will work. If not, well, then, I'll return the items to the bucket for a refund or die trying.
So it goes, like always. Any plan I create goes foul when the spider finds its way in. Its object is to corrupt the core. I attend to this game with ferocious alacrity and focus. The intent to defeat the spider is absolute. I have no intention of ignoring this. Losing grates on me. But every failure is a step toward success. I'm not afraid of failing. The spider isn't afraid either. There exists a weird connection between us. We feel each other out. The energy is exciting. Each of us share intimate bits of the other thru every exchange.
In a triple suspension I'm clearly divided. Finally. This pleases me no end. I can now establish a connection to the entities I've yearned to speak with. They've been conspicuously silent, yet I know they've been listening. Always present, always there to provide, I'm buoyed up by their energy, their undivided attention. I've waited my entire life for this division. Some don't see it that way. No matter. They lack faith. They only reckon what they can see. The triple scoop ice cream sundae is lost to them. They only see the food. I see what's really there. My destiny.
Wow. Fuck this shit, man. In a crevice you cleverly crept. The eye of the prowler was duped, followed the wrong lead. A game began in the center where nobody was supposed to be. I liked this. I found myself getting very excited at the prospect. In a dump you carry your dignity in a mouse bag and let it when the bag man comes dangling its hook. As it gets closer you make eye contact with the least likely thing. This is how you fail to defeat the attack, which was the intended goal from the beginning. Fuck it.
Turbulent substances. You keep them close to your purse. I feel them when you lend me the delicious idea of your love in a casement where many secrets are kept warm. They talk to each other in their own special language. A strong connection is possible, but only if you let them in. There's a powerful price for letting them in. It changes with every deal, so there's no telling exactly what the price will be for anyone in particular. Such a delightful confusion we've created for ourselves, here in this secret room. I feel you. I feel your purse.
In a psyche kind of ward with a ballroom look to it on the end of a dream you thought you remembered every last night before the one you kept as the one you personally treasure above all others, a sole idea lingers before the light goes out altogether. In this light you can find a solace, a place to keep clean as your own special room, a room where magical things happen, where love can scramble fears by a fiery bloom out a vase of alien smiles. This is where I find you most often. I find your smiles.
Enter this way. It becomes a strange way of night, not night but something between night and an idea of night. I'm content to sit in the midst of this way, not in or out, but waiting. The fork in the road is here. No more waiting. A decision has to be made. The time is now. The practice of waiting is way too exaggerated. Time to kick it away and act. You'll see. The entrance is for the few. You've spent your life preparing for this. Are you going to blow it off? Pretend it's not that important? Bullshit.
I couldn't do what I wanted to do. The time folded into itself. What was forward motion became backward and forward, so I wrung my heat on a mobius confusion, and toward a new construction I was blended. How I could be so thick not to act when I had a choice, I can't say. Despite my dullard body feeling its end more conspicuously, the image of my satisfaction still sits in my eye. It takes center stage. I can't see around it. I'm being challenged. Above a dark pit, I see the end as a strange new beginning. Onward.
There's something inside this. Life. I feel it. Sitting in a bland way, the fleshy object has no luster. I'm the thing that gives it light, although I resent the implication that without it I'd be sent back to the factory. I know there's more to what I've seen as the end in seeing. There's something hiding in this steak, inside its blood. It wants to reveal itself. No point in telling anyone. I'm the teller and the told. Volumes of the inner can be chewed to sensibility. Why can't I act? This could be the point where Frankenstein paused.
I found the missing key. It was waiting in a secure place I'd forgotten. Time had bent my understanding, though. Modesty propelled me to vacate the intention I once knew for a whole new ball game. This excited me, of course. I was thrilled to attempt something unknown. This very unknown, however, knew me. It had known me from a very early age when the key was forged. My head was too young to pick up the key, let alone use it. It wasn't your usual key. A special function depended upon it. That function was about to be revealed.
Around the schoolyard I could see it swim. It had its eye on me. I'd watched this runaround for years. It amused me, but it also confused me. There would come a time when the confusion would be eradicated for certainty. I wasn't privy to that time. It was kept secret. The inner basement had its hands full of me while I tried to tread the waters that never drained from my mind. An ocean beckoned these waters. I was there when it called for them. The waters kept aloof, though. They were there for me. I kept them close.
Simply, as a means to see the sky, I was told to dig a hole. It made little sense, until I was told the secret reason for it. I worked tirelessly. I felt pride in the hole. I owned it. It owned me. We were a team. I knew what they asked of me, but I ignored them. They told me to fill in the hole. I wouldn't do that. One night I made a plan to escape with my hole. I planned it out meticulously. When they weren't looking I fled with my hole. We've been fleeing ever since.
The linoleum looks the same but different. I went into the room. It had its way. Now I feel different. Sitting at the kitchen table, I'm waiting for my heart to stop pounding. It looks the same, the kitchen, but it isn't. There's a demonstrable flaw I feel. If I could just see it, I could fix it. You know the feeling. Inside. Something's not right. But there's no edge to grab, no face to blame. I'm sitting quietly. Waiting. I wish I'd never opened the door to the room. Fate demanded it, but I resent fate. It tells lies.
Magical. They call it that. Standing in the center of the living room, I can feel the idea of magic rubbing off on me. Scrub brush to a tarnished iron kettle. The flavors left behind are the ones you just can't forget. I call it magical when you can lie so well that the flavors are gone, they buy your brand of religion, where the flavors are the thing on the alter begging you to eat of the body and drink of the blood. Fucking vampires! You know it. Magical. Now everybody wants to own one. Drink up, bitches. Chow!
In a second it can happen. Less than that. Upon close examination you can hear the seduction before and after. It's a continuous loop. It never stops. Kind of a song. It only pauses briefly when someone takes the bait. Into the vortex they go. There's a question within the vortex they need to answer. It's a challenge. If they establish the presence of mind to understand the question, that's the key. It isn't necessary to answer the question. In fact, it's not possible to answer. There is no answer. That's the real puzzle inside the bigger puzzle. Let go.
The view is amazing. On the precipice. You spent the better part of your life imagining this. Now you're there. But there's something missing. You can feel it. It was taken from you. There's a dark space instead. You feel its emptiness, but you also feel its life. A paradox. One that you either accept or not. Despite all, the view is incredible. It took a long time to open your eyes. The operation was painstaking and long. Many legions died. You can't think about that now. Death comes to all. From the dark space comes something new. A command.
We can swell to the pool, gravitate above drowning, keep drowning an idea you can use if things work out badly. There's always an out if you keep an eye to the ground. Under the swells you can feel how it's coming undone, slow but sure. You haven't a clue how to correct the course that's gone off course, of course. It's supposed to do that. You have to keep to the ground. Hug the ground. Be aware, any second the sky might betray you. Going to the pool is a blessing and a curse, if drowning becomes an option.
For the color is rich. One can wrap themselves up completely in the spectral manifold, vanish from the catching sights. It's better than being eaten by the eyes that have no discrimination. One needs to be discriminated, separated from the crowd. In that separation one finds their color, how it bends to the light that feeds it, how it stands alone and combines. A communion is created in the combinations that unfold, a profound sharing. This may be a good thing. It may also be a bad thing. Depends on your vector space, how you refract light, eat its essence.
Fighting for ministrations on the spectral corner, voices demand command, deviate off their pedestals to make contact. They demand contact. Upheavals of a quiet sort rumble the masses from the edge to the center as hands of a different sort consort their issues. From within, a face emerges. It is a strange face. It refuses to speak, but the masses can feel its command. The command flows like a viscous lava in broad rivulets to each member in abeyance. I feel it's time to illustrate the mechanisms. In my descent, I forgot to say how, forgetting there is no how.
I go to make my say a reality in a reality that demands silence command my persona to function in the expanding unit that has no intent but to expand for no reason, guttering aloud reasons in wheezes through the muck we call our Nation Under God. In defiance, I'm pleasantly aware that death hails the service I called life with a growing gusto. This is a delight I cannot adequately define. It's spreading out. This world. Spreading for its disease in an ease without defiance. This is what we all want, isn't it? I bend my knee. I surrender.
Thus we limply say the service as its written in a blurry liturgy. Songs are sung in a bland heart barely awake. They keep each other on their feet, this aging congregation of one-time followers of a faith, whose heart was stolen when no one was looking. The ground cannot be seen. It hasn't been seen for a long time. No one really cares anymore. The hardest thing to find that completes the picture is the piece that's been forgotten. No matter. This is the way the world ends, this is way the world ends...with a mediocre minister.
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