Oct 2012
(Preta प्रेत (Sanskrit) or Peta (Pāli) is the name for a type of (arguably supernatural) being described in Buddhist, Hindu, Sikh, and Jain texts that undergoes more than human suffering, particularly an extreme degree of hunger and thirst. They are often translated into English as “hungry ghosts”, from the Chinese, which in turn is derived from later Indian sources generally followed in Mahayana Buddhism.)
The series of blurs that was summer 2006 makes me wonder what kind of evils we committed in past lives. What otherworldly desires plagued us with this need to feed upon the surging tidal wave of young blood? The days from May 16th to August 23rd were black mirror images, indiscernible. I kept the 1997 Honda Accord running, tapping my fingers to the beats of Built to Spill on the dashboard, waiting for you outside your father’s newly constructed home on ice. You would bleed forth, blue sun light reflecting off windows to face like an eight point filter. What we did with the day mattered not. It was as important to us as the script of action flicks. We were the only people that we wanted to know and we were the places that we wanted to go. The day lived and died, as the nighttime was when our karma sprung curse would take us. Turn off blurred screens, ignore details of the war, pull the hatch shaded curtains tight. We shared a bed in which we did not sleep, bodies silent, blaring alarms. The same hungry ghosts feeding and choking on ash all night. We burned out, successful slow turns into frail husks. It was then that we couldn’t get full anymore, we realized that we fit like clothes made out of wasps. It hasn’t gotten better for either, a ghoul roaming in the night, hunting for the next lay like a record skipping. We will asphyxiate on stones or have our throats burned by water. Hopefully we’ve suffered enough to respawn into more advanced forms. I hope I see you in the next life as anything else.
The series of blurs that was summer 2006 makes me wonder what kind of evils we committed in past lives. What otherworldly desires plagued us with this need to feed upon the surging tidal wave of young blood? The days from May 16th to August 23rd were black mirror images, indiscernible. I kept the 1997 Honda Accord running, tapping my fingers to the beats of Built to Spill on the dashboard, waiting for you outside your father’s newly constructed home on ice. You would bleed forth, blue sun light reflecting off windows to face like an eight point filter. What we did with the day mattered not. It was as important to us as the script of action flicks. We were the only people that we wanted to know and we were the places that we wanted to go. The day lived and died, as the nighttime was when our karma sprung curse would take us. Turn off blurred screens, ignore details of the war, pull the hatch shaded curtains tight. We shared a bed in which we did not sleep, bodies silent, blaring alarms. The same hungry ghosts feeding and choking on ash all night. We burned out, successful slow turns into frail husks. It was then that we couldn’t get full anymore, we realized that we fit like clothes made out of wasps. It hasn’t gotten better for either, a ghoul roaming in the night, hunting for the next lay like a record skipping. We will asphyxiate on stones or have our throats burned by water. Hopefully we’ve suffered enough to respawn into more advanced forms. I hope I see you in the next life as anything else.
