Re-learning living really does suck. Rituals I've lost were as precarious as they were cherished- and feelings that were felt seamlessly are now choppy and second guessed. My gestures, guesses, sensibilities, wandering thoughts, floating dreams, desires, (foundationless) prayers. It's a funny feeling when everything old seems new and everything new seems old. It's like my current life is a hand-me-down of my old one, or I've reincarnated into the same person. I feel displaced- nowadays, my senses play things through a low-grade type sepia film... in slow motion... with slow moving things. It's funny when things are uprooted and whats taken a long time to procure is in shambles. Everything seems to be flipped around.
Am I vague enough for you? Were those enough cliche thoughts? Excellent. Where am I currently? A desert, silly. And what am I doing exactly... that is an excellent question. You are very excellent. Here's an answer: I'm walking towards a mirage. Deserts are really hot. And they don't have alot of water. My toes are nice and warm in the sand, yes, but I think a snake bit me; now whether or not that's a really bad thing I'm going to have to wait and see- hopefully I just stepped on a rock or something. But yes, this mirage, it really does look nice. How do I know it's in my head you ask? How am I not filled with enough optimism to believe, from the depth of my bowels (not sure what that means), that it isn't really a taco shack in the middle of the desert, located by a palm tree with an extremely benevolent-looking shade, and a water fountain with probably the most impressive piping known to man? Because it's about 20 yards away from me and I've been walking to it for like an hour now. But we push onward- yes we do, yes we do. What would I be doing if not pursuing it? Pursuing hmmm- lets be mindful of our diction, they can betray us, Anakin. I'm vague, right? Yes, let's stay that way. What would I be doing if not walking toward this taco stand that's in the middle of a desert? I think I'd be baking in this heat. It's been noon for a long time. Seriously.
Your eyes pierced through the emptiness that was my life, when all I had was a void to wallow in. You found me in shambles, crippled by what you'd make inane, and you fixed me with your adhesive smile and that voice that poured in and filled my head to the brim. I loved- drinking -that shit. But your eyes. I don't want to romanticize them too much but they really are heavy. Whatever state they'd be in when your face flashed me a quick expression, I'd get lassoed in, yanked by the little strings that sewed themselves into my chest- I've never learned to swim, so maybe that's why I kept drowning in them. Drowned in them.
It's hot as hell here. This sun is ridiculous. And guess what, friends? I just blinked the mirage away. ISN'T THAT SWELL. Oh wait is that a kfc? Aw, nevermind. wamp wamp wamp. I suppose I can draw in the sand with my fingers and toes. I hope the sun goes down soon. It's really, really hot right now. Aaand now if that wasn't a poorly excecuted metaphor, I don't know what is.
I’m from a time where words hurt as much as sticks and stones. The words that emanate from mouths and pens can now lead to the termination of jobs, and the haphazard labeling of people by groups of other people. In a time when words have such power, it’s a shame that it’s not wielded correctly. Words are now a device for certain people to garner control, on the strength of past suffering. They are falsely put into a scope of rigidity, having an end-all-be-all quality.
I want my words to face this climate without fear any of reprisal. I want them to hold pure honesty and emotion, without the weight of ignorance to misdirect them. I want my words to inspire deep thought and reflection, to give a voice to things not often considered, and assuage the fears of standing alone. The words that come from my tongue and my pen have the only true power to represent me, to carry my thoughts and wants into this climate that will surely look to dissect them for things to cut and splay as a headline over a picture of me with my head in my hands. But my words won’t carry any fear of such things, but the virtue of honesty, that will be recognized in others as the shear mark of authenticity. I want my words to tell the stories that I see in my head, and to assist the stories that others wish to bring forth. I want my words to carry this weight, but to stand secondary to the intentions behind them.