Watching people compile the data of their lives.
Projecting and archiving information to stimulate cultures of us
when we give ourselves space to be about what makes us us.
To lose sense of myself is to
castrate
my own vitality
and why I fall in love with the toils of another’s expression.
The catalogues of souls that stand like sentinels in the arteries of the human race.
We were here. We know this moment.
We share it with you and you know the moment in your way,
in the language of your life
and you are heard while being spoken to.
Living to be romanced in this way,
to be understood in the ways we know
with the words constructed on top
of the emotion which was constructed on top
of a moment
now a memory.
A mortal drive of creation in evolving consciousness,
immortally moving another.
Now theres no going back.
I’ve challenged narcissism to grow from nasal gazin bathroom mirrors
into seeing yourself in it all,
to sense the language;
Lust
and fleshy aspects wrestle urgently in the song of your life.
Sorrow
and the audience retreats into the cushions of their throes
or runs from that back alley full of discarded mental furniture.
Love
and their minds explode with connections blossoming into each wonderful and terrible memory that grows into a mesh of a net cast out into the ocean of their heart.
Each memory connecting in a timeline of our moments.
The lines of our lives are filled in with dead words
masking all life to ever show its face.
If only we gave those dead symbols life
in the way life gave them to us.
The language of you while being born with the stubborn disposition
of restless curiosity of our being that begs the questions
of where our lines could go
and with what we could fill ourselves with.
Possibility bursting at our   s e a m s ,
spilling over into our realities.
Aligning our minds towards considering perspectives;
perspective being one thing that our paradigm of truth does not demand more of.
So eager to settle into a home in our head,
we chase the walls and roof of one truth and forsake non-sense of what has yet to make sense
when maybe the bigger picture
and all the multitudes of its non-sensical parts are waiting to hold hands together
in that same portrait,
framed on your nightstand
where you can see how it makes sense,
so the sense can put the weary wights of the unknown to sleep,
so that you may dream with certainty.
So then, what makes more sense than non-sense?