"The sea speaks more honestly to those willing to drown.”
It seems like I’ve been in this room, in this house, forever. With the sun now down the lighting has shifted, and the shadows have gathered into the black and whites of washed out bulbs and dusty furniture, all unremarked upon for its averageness, like a worn-out color TV showing Over the Rainbow to yet another set of kids, again.
It’s time to go, last call has come several times – the warnings increasingly clear with a documentational authority tonified to the sacred movement, vague only to me because I’m alive and things are going on. I’m busy filling out the space around me, while anticipating other things that will stylishly pop into existence from nothing at all – maybe this time dragons or God.
Suddenly, nothing will come all at once -- the fuel, the fire gone, only dry wood left to warm by and a fading trace of DNA’D memories scatted willy-nilly over and around a waiting room that we don’t wait in – we don’t wait in because we are scared to death to imagine what’s outside the door, to imagine the nothingness of the next.
And as we don’t wait, smoking opium in fancy pipes while telling stories to each other that are not true –eating corn from cans in a darkened theatre debating whether we want to take the chance of missing something, or just to hold our pee until the end -- we save our rationality and reason to make better pipes as we funnel the disgruntled into making grand distractional architecture so the elite can tell us lies backed with the heaviness of stone.
We surrender to appease those who despise us. We do what’s convenient, then repent, our happiness just a thicker form of numbness, afraid that death is nothing,all at once.
