Clouds Like Batteries

The night was electric and I had been on the grid for too long. I felt wired and falling to pieces underneath it all, as if the only things keeping me up and standing was some deranged power. I thought that I knew that nothing mattered and that everything mattered completely in comparison to that; I thought that I knew paradoxes and reality and the shifting that was my eternal self. Knowledge, and the nothing-wrong! Cleaved from an apple in Spring! Left to rot, decompose, mold then moss than dirt!

I shuddered. The idea that every idea in my mind was only a dying breath, or the idea that I had always been wrong and learned nothing substantial, it shook me to my core. A small tremor that ran down all of my bones, making me feel as if I was constantly at the edge of something. I had always thought that being close to the edge meant that I would dive off the edge and fall into something great, new, grand and all. The truth hit me in my bed. I laid there wide awake looking up at my white ceiling surrounded by white walls.

I've been half asleep, pretending to exist, lying at the edge of this cliff and going no where. I was afraid of thought, of looking over the cliff and finding a ground a few inches from there, or a foot.

A desert with a white sky. I closed my eyes and will clouds to come, willed coldness, willed discomfort. My skin had goosebumps. I willed lightning, it came about in flashes. I willed a stomach ache and I groaned. It was the way it had always been.

Strung out from nothing, thinking I have it bad, not able to escape the confines of my own mind.

there was a mild cloud.

Rain was coming, the wind slowly walking over the hills and fields. We waited.

No one came but there was an uproar anyway, sifting through nothing; did you think that there would be a diamond in between the mud? Or gold lost in the ragweeds? The mud and the waste, our blood and lives. There are suppose to be teeth hidden in the shade of the mountain. I thought that I saw a man walking around the rocks and the waste, let me tell you:

The sky was white and gray, blinding almost. Where had the birds gone? Or the crickets? Only there was silence, and him, a long beard and long hair, looking forward lost on the edge of the scene. The rocks were brown but the color had drained from my face leaving everything some shade of gray. I thought about coughing but held it in; he would look at me and see, see through me, see a heart and lungs shifting fast, see a stomach in the process of boiling over. Fright and conquest-thrills in the end. We were brothers. He heard my mind, turned his head.

His eyes were white and the sky, the sky looked at me. I blinked.

"No one heard you coming." He walked off a cliff, but by then the sound had all drained from it too. I stared forward into the void which is God, the void which is the source of everything that flows through me. A tear, or a rip. I tried to tell it that I shouldn't be looking at it, or tried to tell myself. I put my hand in front of me, or towards the void, reaching out or dashing blinding light away.

"Counterintuitive. Stop shaking me, God damn it, stop reaching so far underneath and knowing nothing that once was!" Time came out and shook me. Everything was once and at once. "I'm coming, I promise."

I was almost there.

16.12.5.19.5

"And what's a memoir? A compilation of the pointlessness of your life? The importance of nothingness?" Head cocked as if he knew anything. I subdued; head bent down and looking at my feet on the ground. I felt as though I had been walking for too long without looking forward. Everyone's head craned. And to what?

When I was young it mattered less. I was mad, insane, and disillusioned about reality, but it didn't matter as much. Starved, misunderstood, picked upon, and mildly lonely, but

it didn't matter as much.

We were all little piece of food on the board table. Older kids were hands, teachers mouths. The president was God, but none of us cared about him. We were all hypocrites was the thing. One time during recess I stood on the field looking down in the grass at the entire word there was. Dreaming. Waking up. falling back to sleep and dreaming again. I couldn't escape creating standards. If I ignored them awake I'd unconsciously set them in my dreams.

Dreaming of escape from every facet or reality. The sky went first, blue ripped away to reveal the entire celestial system before my eyes. Masses of stars, gasses, suns, ringed planets, grappling as time flew by. Each shutter of my eye lashes the life time of eternity. And infinity in a second.

I couldn't curse. I was chained. But it didn't matter. God existed and I could talk to him, but I became friends with Lucifer first.

That part of my life has no words to accompany it but strong trust. I'm sorry but my tongue is bitten. Speech crippled. There's nothing else left. I would have answered, I promise I would have answered. I sat down ready to take it out but I fell back into it. It swallowed me whole, and I was surrounded by it; the thought and pure conscious perception.

It was important; I bit my tongue many times, scratched my knees and elbows, wore black socks and let my mom comb my hair. My shorts were high, my shirt tucked in. It was important, but it didn't matter as much then.

How could I take it seriously? I wasn't suppose to survive.

I was meant to be ageless; I was meant to wake up early.

no Surprises in birthdays

It's been hanging on the wall again, two eyes just shining there in the fog like cold, sapphire skulls. No one ever took it down because the consequences of forgetting were the loss of an entire world, every world that has ever been. I heard some one say that it's a snake by now. Is that true? Are there fangs in place of teeth? Dear?

"The end is coming, isn't it?" Says the prophet. He's been trying to retire; no one listens, and the book is skewed from madness. I watched him sit there for awhile and I knew that he had lost himself in his mind again. I could almost see the torrent of thought envelope him like the waves did Atlantis. Lost forever, just bubbles coming up in between murky water and salty froth.

"No end, no end, no end." He told me once that the problem with reality is that there are no definite endings. Everything is only half of an end, some sort of awkward mix between seeming to end and having no real resolution to every thought. Looking back, I don't think he ever told me, but I know for a fact that he had thought about telling me using those words. His thoughts were sketched on the wall. I could see them coming towards me like car lights down a road. A warning or a hello or a goodbye, depending on your situation.

It's happened before. Glitches almost. I don't know what to do, no one ever knows because there's no answer. The older you get the more you know about there being no answers, at least not one. It's all freeform.

He's getting tired. I can see it in his eyes. They stare forward but they're stuck in his head. I feel helpless. Tonight I plan on tearing every mask on the wall down. I plan on taking them off in his sleep and burning them all, then throwing salt on them. Demons from the past and all. The last thing he said to me meant nothing.

His words, they're all shells. He's trying to build a beach and he knows it's bullshit.

i Love you

"I've been tired of your idea to be vague about everything." That was true and I couldn't deny that, could I? He shook his head.

"I mean, you've been stuck in this abstraction of-what? Your soul? Completely unable to get to the root of anything without it coming out as a blurry image. But your mind isn't refined to the same limitations that your eyes are! Look out at the world! It's red and scarlet and orange coming down on us. That's not JUST a color, it's the emotion, don't you get that? That's hope. That's revenge. It's passion in it's utmost form. It's not just an abstraction, God damn it."

He was right, he was always right like that, but I'm a thinker and I can't do anything about it. I'm going to be lazy and fall into laziness, I'm going to move on from one passion to another, from one idea to the next, too quickly to do anything with the last idea. Everything I do will be a half-finished project, and I'm aware of that.

Tonight's season might be a change for something more intentional. Maybe it's just not having the right words to convey the meanings of the right ideas, but I think that, if it isn't that, I'm just falling, as if I've tripped over a root in the woods like I did in eleventh grade. Only this time I haven't been running as fast as I could, but I wish that I was. I'm tired of this feeling of base neutrality; I want to speed up, hit the ground hard if I can, just get so wrapped up in something that everything else just becomes a blur of an image as I race by in whatever I'm in. Like looking at the dashboard in a speeding car. I just don't care anymore. Abstraction or clarification; the point is null and void either way, and no one cares in the end still. People don't stay into things, they all move on, and that's my point if there is one.

I'm not the only one who leaves everything half-finished. We're all ADD like that, we're all just more intense or calmer versions of each other racing by and flinging our interests at whatever catches our eyes.

Maybe that's why I'm falling. I throw my interest at difference, or throw it at conformity. The world's full of ideas, concrete things: emulations, originals, novelties, and me.

You Don't Plant Trees in Parking Lots

They fell like wine lovers from the treetops in autumn, bright red and flaming yellow, as if something had spit up mucus from it's lungs. It was beautiful, so crisp and dry that my teeth bit into it with a crunch, and my breath came out of the ordeal smelling of mint and willow bark. The use was something akin to the nature of the woods itself; I ran through her, my hands far from shy, until I explored everything there was: every rock, log, tree, leaf, branch, turned around several times. I fell into the cracks in the sticks on the ground, you see. There was infinity in them, endless cities of oak with pebbles of people darting around in them from one home to another, saying hello and waving to each other with face brimming over the top.

Some one told me that every now and then you forget who you are and where you are, and everything that lies behind you is the only thing you see ahead. You stop, and all thats left in your soul is the desire to stare out and let everything fade back into nothingness. It's the nature of things. When I was younger I could feel the wind and breath in it, let it fill my lungs; it empowered me, the wind did. These days I can only see the wind, and feel it a little bit when it's strong, but I don't exist in it in the same way that I used to. Eventually, or so my brother said, I won't even be able to see the wind anymore. Everything will just move of it's own power and will, and my world will be filled with everything dancing and twitching.

The truth is that we don't know what to think eventually, and we get caught up in this cycle of pushing ourselves to think how we used to, and so we slowly die, having already ventured that thought process, and never grow, having bonded ourselves to that one and only thoughts process. It's the desire to hold on, this illusion of worth and meaning. The truth after this, in order to save a life, is that nothing matters, and everything is the past means nothing. The only real representation of the past is memory, and anything beyond is not an easier way to remember the past, but an easier and more effective way to tie down the you that is growing to the past you, which never stays the same, and only slowly decays into the nothing that is was before.

Tonight the sky reaches up with God's hands, spilling over with a chalky cyan, and splashing into brilliant white, where the sun beams through wisps of clouds. It doesn't look like dusk is coming, it looks like a dawn of a new day. And the truth is, that means nothing. It's beauty, and that's sufficient; isn't it?

Nitch Nitch Nitch-Noo

New. It was new, wasn't it? It came out over the sky, another day, another time, but it was new nevertheless. New in the sense that no one had remembered seeing it, other than the world. I figured that it would creep about on the floor of our kitchens at night, just out of reach, just out of sight, underneath the refrigerator where none of us ever cleaned. We were afraid of going there, to look at what we had been for all these years, afraid of the effort, afraid of looking at it and having to acknowledge it. So there it sat and would sit. What is wrong with humanity? To look out into the world for every fix for their interior problems? To avoid at all costs that things that made them feel as though they'd vomit up their heart, still beating. I was tired of it, everyone was, but day after day of straying away from it, it grew, larger, more sinister, more dreadful, until it had become part of us, had taken over. It crept along the ridges of the tile floor, moss, fungus, something we would never have seen coming, now upon us, now in our air, now in our lungs, heart, and mind.

Sitting, waiting, creeping. That wasn't what was new, it was the same old.

Fuck everybody. His words rushed to my mind first off, and I thought that I understood in a way, but I knew that my comprehension was different than his in the end. He was a cold winter and alcohol, and I was a hot summer night and a lit joint. We were two different spectrums completely, but I felt as though we were still part of the same thing. I looked down at my feet, toes in the sand, the sun was hot that day but the wind was cool and crisp because autumn was coming. I knew what that meant. Every night would be black skies and the street lights would look more orange than golden. I would be able to dress in clothes that suited me better. It was good.

It was good because I was already becoming the wind again. A smile, or a face, teeth and eyes and lips all in their different ways, likes your reflected in my eyes. That made me happy, you knew, that's all there was too it. Maybe it was enough. The floor of my apartment was white but covered over with blankets; I'd step on them at night when no one was around to see, sit on them and fall into the void, then recreate myself one piece at a time. It wasn't complete change, just control, creativity. I wanted to be something new unto myself. That was the idea was all.

It was the autumn that made me want to clean underneath the refrigerator. It took a day and, in the end, didn't matter and wasn't as bad as I thought. The thing is to not trick yourself into being afraid. It's life and life only.

Time and Time Again

"I no longer shine."

"You're a star." -The husk, unused shell, shadows cast forth. The night sky without heirloom, or the wedding dress without scales, or the brow without a furrow, crease; what's the use? To some, sand in a clay jar, alone in the desert, the sky a mirror of the ground, equal and opposite, giving nothing. It's a money changer that only takes, a king with high taxes; the world, being a cage, trapping you inside of it and never letting go. This gravity, fingers around my ankles, the endless blue sky, the window in a prison showing only a little of what really is. The ground might as well be cracked concrete, caked with the skin of every human being who has tread it's surface looking up at night and almost falling into the infinity of darkness. It's nights like that that take away all hope in humanity. Dreamers; you gotta join the cause, they're a dying race and all.

We're all getting caught up in the objectivity of religion, of drugs, of commitment, of sensualism. We're forgetting the infinity of our lives, the slowly passing time, and it's endlessness. We forgot our snakes and our tongues, we forgot the way the light reflected off of each others eyes. Creases in the hands, a texture like a pillow case made with Jersey threads. It's lost, maybe that's not so bad. Life sometimes is like a firefly, off and on all the time, lighting up in different places. You can't see where it goes when it's gone, but once it's back you know where you are. Shadows still play off the light- what's it matter? A second, a minute, wasted to ruin everything?

"Do things happen for a reason?" -No, they don't. "Then what's the point?" -Choice. It makes no difference, or all of it, whatever. Ashes to ashes and all.

Sleep well.