There’s a sense of loss that invades my daily psychic existence. It pervades my entirety, fulfilling the dreams of the long distance runner in me. I’ve run away before. I’ve cuddled with the cold, hidden in trees, lived in the darkness of a fall night. I’ve made friends with the electronic hum of street lights, and have even exchanged stories with the oceanic language of freeways and highways.
The blue ceilings, the cracked green and brown stems. Oh brave human — your soul is only steam. I believe you, color. Because, it’s not without folly that I encourage the firm grip on the purple film surrounding reality. Like a muggy, misty morning in the bowels of an outer Houston suburb, you will find a seething potential that bleeds into your own.
I’m under the impression that it ends the same way for everyone. I don’t know this for a fact, but I am willing to play with the idea. Once under the guise of a mysterious dream journey, I felt the systematic shutdown of each body compartment, from the feet up, taking hold me. I came to on a dusty kitchen floor, the metal rails screeching like dying light from the elevated subway outside.
Things like ideas of “life” take this weird, fantasy turn, where although the night is itself balmy and glowing, there exists still, this underlying unconscious unknown future that appears to be pitted against all singing creatures of the night. A true sound-party is taking place, and the fact that it too must come to an end, bothers the observers exclusively, as the singers couldn’t care less if the sun even existed.
So always, will the sun always rise, which will mean that it will always be morning. Always and Never, my two favorite pastimes. The moon, acts upon itself, and has nothing to do with gravity or psychopathic positions. It is made of cookie dough, and fresh milk. Always and forever do not question my authority on this matter.
