Brief Explosions.

These things, that I don’t have with any other human being.
I’ve been thinking about you often.
I’ve been thinking about who I was with you often.
But these things that I have with you,
I want them back.
I’d handed them over without ever noticing,
Now I can feel them missing.
Little pixels pulled from the image that is me.
I don’t know if they can be returned and borrowed,
Or if they’re sold with your heart permanently.
A sacrifice to love.
If I can get them back, I don’t know how to start.
I’m standing in center of the street,
And it’s raining on my face, hiding my tears.
I don’t know which way to move,
So I close my eyes and try to feel you with my soul…
Wherever in the planet you are.
And these words are my demons,
Pulling me from my soggy shoes
Above the street and between the raindrops.
I can only struggle to remain grounded,
But every once and a while I’m still lifted above the hustle and bustle…
Reminded of the pieces of me that lie within you.
I can’t always feel them,
Sometimes I forget.
And when I remember,
I float through the rain again.
I can only hope you’ve released them up to the universe
So I can search for them within someone else.

“Everyone in your dreams you have seen at some point in your life.”

I guess that’s why I don’t have dreams about love. I haven’t met the right person yet.

in this room, the floor is a clear film, with water swirling beneath it,
when i walk, my footsteps sound like raindrops and leaky faucets.
the ripples from the contact of my feet create bulls eyes encompassing my toes.
the walls repel me like trampolines; i can bounce around without friction to slow me down.
as you tumble from wall to wall, a symphony of musical raindrops trail behind me.
in here, i can see with no obvious origin of light, and every corner of the room is equally painted with light and free of shadows and flickers.
i can’t tell whether there is a ceiling or if the top is open, i feel no breeze here.
i feel no differences in temperature as i jump off walls and slide along floor.
above me i see stark black, with no gradients in texture, save for unwavering stars without any twinkle.
there is no sound here, save for the twining musicality of the water droplets…not even the sound of my own breath or heart beating.
i am not even entirely convinced my heart is still beating, but i feel no nagging in the pit of my stomach over this thought.
really, i feel no emotion at all. it would be a freeing feeling, if i had any feeling at all.
i’m unaware of the length of this room, if there is a beginning or an end, or whether i am alone or amongst company i cannot see.
it doesn’t seem to matter to me whether i am alone or not either, but how could i?
i have no feeling at all anyway.
almost in a robotic manner, the thought that perhaps i should be concerned crosses my mind, but i cannot feel it.
i decide to find one of the other two walls, if there are walls other than the two rubber-like walls that sit so narrowly next to each other, and walk.
i trail my left hand along the springy wall beside me as i go, and i can feel the molecules tremble with agitated desire to push back against my hand.
their vibrations give the surface an unusual, sort of warm, texture to it.
my focus shifts to the sounds of the floor beneath my feet, which seems to echo less with each step i take.
another step, another flatter note.
another step, another closer note.
i become innately aware that i am no longer wearing shoes, as the texture beneath my feet has changed.
this clear film, of undetermined diameter, is surprisingly soft and nimble between my digits.
i pause for a moment to wiggle my toes, in light observation of the jelly-like floor.
after i’ve satisfactorily indulged my right brain, i continue my path with even-paced, even-spaced footsteps.
there appears to be no time in this room, or i’ve no sense of it.
perhaps i’ve walked for hours, or seconds, maybe years.
i just kept walking, and finally i arrived at a new bit of surrounding.
i take my time meticulously scanning my surroundings.
the “wall” before me is concave, and as i run my right hand along it’s surface, i discover it is not solid at all.
the texture is similar to a wall of soft, thick fur, and yet the opposite thereof.
when i apply more pressure to this “wall,” my hand pushes beyond the flexible border, like slowly pushing a toothpick into the meniscus of a water surface.
on the other side, my hand doesn’t feel anything, but doesn’t feel nothing.
it just is. without being or not being.
it is there while being also here, and where, and without why.
something inside me stirs, and i know without thinking that this is where i need to be.
i slowly push my hand into this wall, and then my feet, and then my hips, then shoulders, then head.
and then, for the first time, i was. and i am. and i wasn’t and am not.
i became neither here nor there, while being here and there, and everywhere for nowhere and nowhy.
then i could feel without feeling, and be without being.
and all was not right with the world, for there is and was no world.
so all was just right.

It’s the end of the world as we know it,

But I don’t mind.

I’ve got your hand in my hand,

And every mountain we’ll climb.

Forever we’ll run,

Forever young,

Run away from this town,

Against impending doom.

The wind’s in our faces

As we race the sun to the horizon

We know we’ll never get there,

But we can sure give it a try.

We’ll run till we can run no more,

And then we’ll stop…

Sleep for days…

Then start our lifelong adventure all over again.

This world’s too dark for our dreams,

And life’s too short to deal,

So we’ll run until the end of days,

Because there’s so much happiness to be had.

The earth beckons to us,

“Come see what I’ve to offer.”

And how could we not oblige?

You’re by my side,

And we can do anything just to be alive.

Crisp expansion and contraction…

Breathe.

In, and out with clouds of crystals suspended in the air only instantaneously.

Up in the sky the sun flickers just between softly swaying branches of pine.

Shadows dance along the cluttered ground,

Drawing cascades of eerie creatures to form and reform at will.

Twigs snap beneath each slow, cautious step…

Heel to toe…

Heel to toe.

At twilight the critters come out to play.

waves crash on the edges of my consciousness,

tendrils of water trickle between my tensed lips,

my chest rises and falls laboriously as my eyes frantically scan the horizon,

my cheek is pressed firmly to the ground, soaked fingers of hair envelop my face,

my head is spinning faster than the twirls of this current’s undertow.

i’m dizzy and hot, wavering over the line between dream and reality,

i stiffly clench a hand, expecting to feel sand beneath me,

instead of sand, i feel jagged rocks quiver in my palm with lives of their own,

the rocks are cool to the touch, but emanate impossible heat.

my body convulses involuntarily, retching up bloodless realities,

waves smash harder still to my defeated body.

my mind feebly attempts to pierce through the spinning haze,

i become more aware of the unusual rocks shaking slightly,

with a faint rumble and persistent discomfort in my side.

i am still unable to move, finding my limbs to feel distant,

blinking slowly, my soul begs for existence while my body whispers ‘no,’

i close my eyes and succumb to the ebbs and flows within my skull.

the rocks and the cool water wrap themselves around my physicality,

and i drift back off into a peace without will or form.

Life has been so hellish, I’ve not been able to write anything. It’s funny when your world absolutely crumbles and even pinching yourself can’t convince you that you’re alive, and this is really happening. Divorce, death, travel, loss of jobs…this time the sky isn’t falling. This time it’s the earth, the shockwaves from the Tsunami have been sent to take the earth right out from underneath me. Who says there was no rapture? This certainly doesn’t feel like the world I used to know.

So I feel I must write, because if I don’t I am absolutely certain I will explode into infinite pieces and float endlessly and helplessly through the atmosphere, and I simply cannot let that happen.

But I can’t find it in me. I can feel the words brimming on the edge of existence, just as I always do before I write something I will certainly be the only person to completely hate…but I just can’t get there. Instead of a cascade of emotion and vision and automatic words…I’m feebly grasping through a veil of what and who I used to be. How can I possibly write about what is real and true, to me, if what’s my reality now feels more like a terrible dream that keeps spiraling out of control?

I miss my desk. This would be so much easier if I was still in my room with my little wobbly desk and enormous and outdated clunk computer…typing away with Hot Fuss on repeat. Skipping meals, and sleep, and blinking because the words are flowing from my soul through my fingers onto the screen. Not even looking, not even thinking. I held direct conversations while my hands whittled away at the keyboard obviously possessed by another entity, because how could someone create words without even knowing? It was like a trance, only I was conscious, and aware of everything around me save for the words appearing at 120 words per minute.

I’ve lost that place.

I cannot say the last time I wrote poetry.

Or chipped away at my latest novel.

I’m not depressed, too bad anyway, because that’s when my best work came out.

I’m not happy, from when by second best work came out.

I’m just nothing, completely empty and devoid of life and my once praised creativity by loved ones. I’m losing my legacy. I’m afraid that I’m already floating through the atmosphere…endlessly…but without the luxury of exploding into infinite pieces so as to have a legitimate excuse to be so helpless.