| Posted On: | 2006-08-19 21:48:13 |
My sickly skin cannot bear the warmth. Cold damp heart has become accustomed to itself, and strong, and proud to be able to survive as it does without you…love. I sneer. I am filled with awe and power and contempt for weakness in myself, I know to expect it in others, others are undoubtedly weak, they are victims to the lie of companionship that dominates their being, their helpless frail minds. Others believe that home exists, that mother and father are people who will live forever, at least in memory -lies-, that the essence of being has a finite reality. I am smoke, forgotten by the most fleeting of breezes, invisible at night, non-being, and un-existent. The absurdity of my chemical reactions attests to the philosophical underpinnings of my grand awakening, my vision of surreality. Hail oblivion! This social construct is a fleck in time and space, a product of our collective consciousness, a mass of droning voices, everybody saying the same thing in a different language over, and over, and over again. I hold my hands tightly over my ears, I hold my breath and my cheeks inflate like a blow-fish, I scream louder than the totality of droning voices around the world, I escape the arbitrary settings of historical time and I try desperately to embrace now, the wind, the sensory reality of flesh...And I try to forget my impending death. I want to combust spontaneously like a phoenix, I want to know all, at once, and now…Goodbye family, in one way I loved you, in another you were never more than a bag of bones already dead. But I suppose either way you are the heritage of this thought and warm salty water brims at the idea of my own humanity. I am human. Or was it only a dream? Am I someone else’s own? Does another mind hold this heart? Am I an astral projection into the universe by a yet unborn child of the earthly sun, lying in the comfort of womb? Home would be the cycle of birth and death. Home would be someone else holding my hand and guiding me through the walkways of perception.
Now it’s raining, my head is thunder. I am vodka and pot and beer and cigarettes and all the things I sit here and consume to inspire me. I am sugar with its long history of colonization, and slavery, and addiction. I am the rich aristocracy of Western Europe playing organic games of destruction…dirty hippie. I try to place my mark on my stone grave, but I am dead and I cannot hold a pen or hit the keys, so I dictate my story to a telepathic…I wish you could read my mind, live inside my consciousness, get me…Sad as I am, alone as I always will be.
I believe in love, but only when you look into my eyes. I believe in the entire social drama, but only when the moon holds my gaze and smiles at me in awe, as if I were brighter than it is tonight. As if I was the sun.
Listening To: the world
