Still in motion, I struggle with shrinking sounds of my shadow resisting the ballooning into life I find articulating so often. What is the self? I have been skinny dipping with this question because I can not forget what it is to be an object, a sense of the ever present weight of a secret word we’ve been struggling to define. Do I even need a diction for direction? Could we not let our selves wash over us like we could not falter and if not then aren’t we already dead?
A horseshoe on fire with all the weight of emotion. A far more intoxicating psychosis, than being a program.
I dare the children;
there is a reason he’s known to be jealous and a man.
I will play but I’m going to bend the rules as it suits this shade at my heels
driving me further into my own lightness so that it may grow taller.
The ant and the sapling.
A sensation of of being… SNAP OUT OF IT.
Too close. You don’t want to feel this love.
You’ll become contrary to your cage
and It is that very tension that will vault me
into the sun where again I will melt back down into a wash basin
of soapy science trying to scrub reality clean.
When everything is spotless,
what will the dirt mean when there is nothing left to refer as an opposite?
The earth will become the numb halls of sadist’s with not much left of
home to live in unless we learn to fly by our own direction.