June 18, 2015

Flood of Consciousness

The boy - or was he a man? - was leaning against a street lamp with a cigarette positioned carelessly in the corner of his mouth, letting it burn as he gazed off toward nothing. Smoke drifted idly up and dissipated in the tangerine glow. His eyes were focused on some sightless dimension. Then, as the street lamp flickered a single time, there pierced through his mind a moment’s worth of blistering thought, here transcribed.


I always thought I would die young I never thought however that my youth would die when I was not yet old I’d like to be alone for a while I remember him saying and he never stopped for more than a day again

He was always walking always away always toward somewhere else I wish I could walk like that I wish I could escape from meaningless nothing into some greater meaningless nothing I wish my life was a series of vignettes in foreign places with foreign people and foreign truth but truth is always familiar why

Because what if those foreign people are the sides of your personality the breathing facets of a flesh and blood diamond a consciousness sentenced to solitude with some sides battered dark and some glimmering next to light and only one visible at once

He was a heart always in motion always replenishing always alive but I am a hand calloused and worn with fingers numb from holding on too tightly I am not brave I am not brave enough to live I am just too cowardly to lose my own life because everyone everyone has a name a color I have no name no color

If our souls were bare I think they would fit together but we are clothed in this wolf skin these carnival masks this never never ending bullshit

What will I look like when I am old wrinkled and tempered and wrestled by age with lines on my face like lines in a torn and yellow book do not let the words of that book escape through your mouth do not paint them with your tongue with the false colors of your mind that guard your dignity with their hue do not let the words form letters let them remain ideas shapeless pictures beautiful sensations unable to be shared

It doesn’t make sense but what does it’s not perfect but what is

Driving driving remembering the past the present the future the people you love the feelings you will never share and you can no longer perceive the division between mountain and cloud instead you see some far off kingdom born of a hundred rainy daydreams old and sunlit a forest growing from ancient pages ancient trunks growing from worn paper bark encased veins rushing with ink some northern country unattainable by foot aching aching aching to join the stars

Her her we were together lying in streams of dying sunshine ripples of light from elsewhere pouring into the memory worn spaces of our eyes we were in eastern mountains in daydream in hope in distant memory but these words are tainted the painter cannot paint with colors that exist only elsewhere and in her eyes

She is my absolution

God damn you said his reflection and then he walked and walked and never stopped and maybe someday I will follow him maybe someday I will do the same but for now I let my reflection do the talking talk talk talk I hate over and over and over and clean me purge me wash me of my sins and


Then, for a moment, everything was clear, and he heard the softest rain falling through the trees.

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