Sitting Down in a Yellow House Made of Nothing

He does not ask when, but who? And why ask when you're standing in front of me with nothing to you? (A figment of your own thoughts, like the mist of a persons breath during winter: fading away.)

I look down into the pond trying to see enough to make me fall in for eternity, but all I'm beginning to see is fragments of my own face being ripped apart and the water ripples; will leaves not stop falling? It's the time of the season I tell myself, it's normal, that time again when the wind comes and blows you down, or the lightning to scare you away, or the storms to shatter and maim. My hands on the ground trying to feel the novelty; I am nothing but an addict to life, forever in the process of desensitization. All people fall down, we all fall down, each a game within ourselves in a constant struggle of wits. You see, he hears, she smells, I feel, we taste; our sense leave us eventually and we're only thoughts floating in nothing, or spacemen in the sea, foreigners in our own crusade.

It's vital, to loathe existence every once in awhile, or to remember that jaded is a temporary mind set, or that hallucinations are just as real as your objective hallucinations. Autumn coming and we're all falling into it. The wind combs our hair and there are smiling teeth in the woods or children in masks and horror movies selling out. Tonight a wired mind will wander down the road and see God in the sky, or the devil in a church, or his death in a glass of water, and life within the sand on a beach. Rationality will go with it and we'll all fall down.

Half past ten and still threading needles; the future times coming upon us no matter how many times we try to cut the string. (Return in our heads to the 60's or the 40's and finding them gone from out minds, lacerations in our minds pulling our personalities apart.) Suddenly tart, a tear here or there for the flavor and that passes over; we'll hug and grin and love and smile, and the sun will set, and that passes over. We'll dive into our minds and find us, who we are and who we'll always be, decided then, and that passes over.

Infinity is constantly over. We all fall down.

Today I looked in the rain for something that could tell me where I was. The lightning kept coming down, lighting each drop so that the light brimmed through it like cold, blue steel, or a star lost in the clouds. The air metallic, and you somewhere in the darkness of the forest, and I at the crossroad trying to wrestle a demon to the ground without realizing it. I try to see but maybe I'm the blind one, or the blind one that at least knows he's blind on some level. I could feel myself fall down but there's no ground anymore.