I think there may have been a time, in the distant past, that my life was more than moving pictures, that it was fluid and rushing like the stream that sit just outside the apartment window. Dew dripping down the window, the heat in the room is inescapable. It’s like life, the essence of ours, is telling me subtly that we are bound to gravity and the only way we can be pulled is down. The message was not loud, and the moist, heavy fog that is obscuring my view of the H bonded to the two oh’s emanating through the obscured window overlooking is, and was never, what I thought about. It was all about them, as it always was.
Now, I admit wholeheartedly that my friends had always warned me about this sort of relationship; the kind that has not ending in sight; the kind that always ends abruptly like I was supposed. To know. On again. Off again. < hearts broken 3. I don’t care, they don’t know, but they do and so do I. Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment, or my avarice for the daemon that rests beneath my surface is tired of leaving claw marks behind my eyes, blinding me from the truth that all I’m doing is feeding it.
-“I’m hungry, where’s my breakfast?”
It’s coming. “I just did, give me a moment to catch my breath.”
-“Breathe as you’re making breakfast, I’m hungry. Just don’t breathe on the food, it should be edible!”
The noise shrieking from the bathroom was intense, and just like that the stream was visible through the hands on the window. It’s odd though, I know the handprint, but it doesn’t feel like mine, it’s just a silhouette. Immediately I chuckled, it reminded me of those silos I saw as I was driving through the flat and endless middle country, filled to the brim (or so I thought) with grain waiting to be mashed and milled; to be molded into a consumable. The multitude of uses it had after being ground is innumerable, the nourishment it would offer made it more than a substance, but sustenance. It’s promising, as I once did.
The aroma of bacon flowed through the air, the heavy undertone of sweet, savory and salty all combined with the acidic light roast filled the small space of residence. In this twisted residence, an amalgamation of particle board and bachelor black, linen lined the closets like a padded room, now engulfed in the stench of my wrong doings, like the combustion of wood that carries on for days or weeks after camping. Ah, how I long to be next to the water again, extending life through the blackened death, offering life and warmth, a way to cook and admire, as I imagine the gods do with us. As they’ve done with me.
“The eggs are a bit dry, but it’s the thought that counts I suppose. I’m going to shower, can you run to the laundry room and grab the towels in the dryer? I don’t need to smell like you, in fact, I don’t want to.”
Things were so clear, but I can feel the swell of confusion and crashing of my thoughts as my confidence erodes from the salty ocean water. I don’t believe I was ever stuck between a rock and a hard place, I was simply the rock and the beautiful blue abyss that I got lost in some time ago is now a relentless storm that I cannot escape. Swirling and encompassing, gray and ever darkening, twisting and turning; I can never be enough; I will be only myself; this is what I never wanted to imagine but always knew was possible.
I don’t think I’ve ever truly understood why they call it a sink, but I do know that it works because of gravity, the work of defying by denying. Supposing that gambling was a vice, one would simply bet,as those did with the housing market, I mortgaged more than I could handle, but I was a rock. Unflinching and tough, reliable because I never moved, I absorbed until I broke but I could always manage to mold myself with a bit of pressure into a mountain. Snow capped, 32 foot waterfalls near the eye of some magnificently light brown or golden entrance, everlasting green of century old trees creating the soul of a place that was as handsome as it was peaceful. Silent noise, unlike the manufactured business of the urban sprawl in which I live, the fabricated single existence filled with blackness amongst pure white walls, with a person I can no longer recognize because the impurities do not reflect the vision I translate.
The mirror is a lie.
I am beginning see that the best I’ve ever seen may have never truly lived, instead reside in a state of fluctuation of trying to figure out the representation in the shiny surface that sit just above the nightstand. but manages to still stretch to the cold floor, was just an imitation of the real creation I could never see. “Take control” they said! “Be better and accommodate because this is it, and the river doesn’t flow two ways at the same time” was the warning they fired at me. Who it was and what direction it was coming from is still beyond my scope of understanding, but none of them was a recognizable presence, none of their faces or certainly none of their voices were familiar, just more crashing. More erosion of a sun beaten stone that was not destined for a countertop or pillar of support, no, just a stone with cracks exposed as the chasms widened between a once strong sediment.
-“Would you hurry? I’m waiting…”
So am I. For what, I don’t know. I don’t know.
I’ve been told that I speak poetically, but what is poetry? Is it a result of my thoughtful process, the raw state of my heart (which is, in itself, the connective fibers and completeness of the soul), or merely a result of a vocabulary being flexed to appease the intellectual ego? I am certain that it has gotten me into many places I never intended to go; that I’ve chased ghosts, or at least tried to grasp apparitions that my own silly mind has created. And yet…
I am sitting on two poles of the polars, at the same time, endlessly split on the decisions and choices that I feel concurrently require an action and the blinding faith that it could all conceivably work out. Very rarely in my life has it ever worked out that I wish to be of the mind that necessity be a motivating cause for direction and movement, or that it at the very least movement was a direct result of an action that I took with anything other than the immediate future in mind. My feelings are torn apart, cross cut and scattered into the winds of time; bits and pieces landing gently on the glossy stones of a life I no longer have. This soul, this phenomena…it confuses.
I thought I knew, I know I didn’t, that the feelings of doubt only felt empty because I let them, but they didn’t have any substance to their existence. Like a song on the radio that plays outside the realm of reality. To some degree I’m sure that this may seem rude, but when was the last time you looked at the clock, the calendar, or the face behind the lines? Our souls must have called out, screaming a thousand times, leaving hash marks on our palms to remind us that time had passed and patience had eroded, the crashing waves of a life we hardly know but vividly remember, the familiarity of my existence isn’t, but I suppose that’s the magnificent beauty of having no direction. They say that in order to have agency, to grow and gain wisdom, we must be willing travel beyond our comfort zone. To put ourselves into a place void of comfort, lacking of the furious colors that paint my representation of, well, I don’t know anymore.
I just don’t know anymore.
-”I just don’t know anymore”