The way your light reflects
the grace is like braille
the way a hand can feel your face
and it’s so dark, but I don’t know that
so it doesn’t really matter to me, anymore..
But I did feel it, that strange passing of what I could not grasp.
Fine.. so be it.
Blood can evoke so many images, I just imagine
a circle drawn on the floor, with a strange glow,
and people chanting, waiting for their god..
like I’m waiting for you.
And I can imagine things darker, far darker..
darker than you, or I, or anything we could be..
Darker than the moons heart on a night where I am invisible,
just like you,
and thinking about why the weather seems perfect if we’re not there;
figures.
Forget about it, I suppose,
because it’s sinew that binds
bone to bone
and blood that makes sanguine
ribbons flow from between
the crevice to one to another,
until one day it just can’t grow.
Now? Forever I will remember the way it really was, shrouded forever in amber some scientist will find someday. More and more now I feel like a bug — awake, asleep and dreaming — three totally different things. When did things become so automatic? When did they become out of control? Or is it really that? Perhaps now things are starting to find their orbit in life. Perhaps things are solidifying — gelling, so to speak — but why is it so disconcerting? I’ve always been a thinking, feeling person. I’ve never questioned my intuition for more than a few hours at most, and that’s just me being realistic. Should I feel like I’m on the moon? Every day I do. Please tell me why this is.
Do I yearn for something different? Obviously — that’s the eternal question answered, so don’t play dumb — and tell me exactly what is different? The Metro is metro. The Suburb is suburb. Only language, culture and perception stand between the watercolour of human existance, yet it’s more like finger painting. We do have refined culture, according to us, and have for thousands of years, but where do you draw the line between pain and pleasure? Between thought and feeling? However, what about those sculptures made thousands of years ago in some idea image? The ones that have been around, been weathered, seen revolution and transport and more eyes than you could ever? Suffice it to say that those busts of warlords and generals, presidents and kings will eventually crumble and turn to sand, they will fall with the museums that they reside in. They will be mud of the heels of our boots. Eventually they will. This is very sad.
I don’t know how to elaborate any further, I don’t think I did a very good job: But I want you to know a few things about my life and our lives, and if you are willing to listen then I am willing to listen to you. I listen to you every day, and that’s really the only way this whole thing is gonna work out, I guess.
Take it easy, as always,
-RM
