usualchatter replied to your photo: Raaaaaaaaaaaaarrrr
Wonderful colors in this one.
Ya like my green walls? They are nice, like it’s spring inside my room all the time. Currently: mid-April, but without the birds in the morning, same chance of steady skies everyday. Season changes really throw me off sometimes.
I morph hallway-crawlers into zebras, all with the same disorienting stripes. That’s how they start out, anyway. Fresh meat, child’s play, kid stuff.
I remember being striped. Walking gingerly at first, gaining some speed every year.
Now, I stomp, bang, kick my way to class. I’ll step on you and then snarl, spit. My apathy reigns in this kingdom I detest. I despise my royal subjects. And I sit on pride rock, sunbathing in solace until the next stampede.
I fight every day for four years and never catch a break.
“Small steps to the madhouse still get us there at last.”
-Gregory Maguire
A worm squirms in the dark forever, no eyes, nothing but inching up close together and then falling apart to gain a fraction of an inch, riding the rain like waves, barely breathing, what a life.
Skip to me, face-down in the salted sea. I would stay like that forever, seemed like. A-lungful-of-air was my escape, soak-your-body was the idea. I wanted to be immersed in the whole thing, all of it. I guess I was a worm.
Until I suspended myself underneath, and swam with my fingernails in the sand, pulling, weightlessness, and release. That wasn’t human-me and that wasn’t a watery worm. That was different.
Like heat lightning in the great blizzard of me, circa 1993, you make things fall over inside my heart, you destroy buildings, and you know how beautiful I find that. I find things within myself every day that I never knew were even there, or anywhere for that matter. But nothing matters when I’m alone inside the house with broken windows. Nothing is a bottle of liquor that smells like the sixties when you smash it against a wall. Nothing is the sound of a cat meowing where there’s none. Nothing is a phantom and happiness is fleeting, but I know how to mirror it.
I use everything. My advantage is priority.
I can never remember my dreams.
I don’t know why I’m so on fire. I can feel it though, through every part of me but especially my head; my temple burns when I inhale and it resonates, vibrates all of me, reminds me of a nice afternoon in the spring spent with sugar cubes and a whole big wide field, full of everything you need, full of what your mind wants.
Imagine that. You want to see something beautiful and then you’re enveloped by the forest folding in on itself, trees snapping like bone, and then actual bone, but all you can do is laugh. Because it’s what you wanted all along.
Some people make it better but most people make it worse. It’s up to me, shoes forward, march march march, puddle-splash, sometimes slip, but whatever. You move on and crush another diamond up, throw it into the pile. Everything adds up to basically nothing; water in the muddy gutters that make faint noises when I’m trying to sleep. Nothing more, nothing less, everything is avoidable and I ignore it and move on.
It just became increasingly heavy underneath my eyelids, where I was trying to push them upwards into a faked arch of wisdom and healthy happiness.
None of that exists anyway. Why bother another?
2 C E (?)
