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28 September 2016 @ 02:54 pm
but we feel sincere against such mighty dreams  
1.
does it matter? the rich and warm of it, the nightly swarm of it, the on and on and on and on again off of it, the are you listening, do you hear me, would you hear me, does anyone hear me at all?

i don't know what it meant or what it could mean. i don't know, and the trip of stumble of that, the hopeless rumble of it, the what would i say if i could say something, the what would it mean if it meant something:

open and shut, or never resolved, no answer to be found, no trail left to follow, a tangential tangle of what wasn't said and what wasn't documented. left undocumented. a ravaging pathway through dense underbrush, and lies, or what could be lies, what might be lies, lie down now and close your eyes, lie down now and hold your tongue:

what am i saying? what the fuck am i even trying to say?

the point of this is that there isn't a point. no single point. no single point of entry, no trodden path through the chaos, no satisfying resolution or manageable solution, no simple way to work out or through. just:

all of a sudden you're here and all at once you are gone. and you arrive in a mess, and you wander around through a mess making a terrible mess as you go and, once gone, leave yet another mess behind. so it is what we are: a mess. we are messy creatures. we are infernal leviathans of god might not even know what. we are enigmas wrapped in riddles stashed somewhere in plain sight that you'll never think to look. and then and then and then.

does it matter? did it matter? will it ever matter?

i don't know, and that lack of knowledge crumples up under my fingertips, rattling, ripping, no matter too serious, no matter it's silly, but then again, you know? but then again. we matter to each other, i think, except when we don't. at least we have that. maybe that's enough, i think, except when it isn't. i haven't written for days. i couldn't tell you why. just that: i don't really have anyone to report back to, no deadlines, lines for the dead, keep it steady keep it sure and keep doing it even when there isn't a purpose even when there's not much of a point, nobody reading, nobody going to read: choke me dead with my own hard line, why don't you?

lose the line again again: to indifference, to social protocol, the letter of the law, the nonnegotiable absolutes of life and death, we're sorry but it's not a good fit, we're sorry but good luck with it, i wanted to love it, i mean, i really wanted to, but i did not. or maybe or maybe or maybe, right? he didn't say one damn thing to me, not at the end, not near it. i keep waiting, i keep hoping, maybe something, some indication, some post-dated email set to drop one day when i'm at my wits end, such a save, such a save! some half formed semblance of a real goodbye

but then again, i can't expect that. but then again,

what have i ever done to deserve that?


2.
"read between the lines," he told me and said to repeat it back.

"write between the lines," i said, and didn't meet anyone in the eye for a week:

because there are too many secrets, too many matters pressed flat and drawn out over themselves and under again. an illustrating example. an unwanted explanation. yet another privileged stranger presuming to tell me my suffering is meaningless in light of their own. perhaps it is. perhaps i am overreacting. i've certainly overreacted before. maybe i am making it all up. i am quite imaginative, you know. aren't we all? except when we aren't, you see, and those are the scenarios where people are shot dead, are dropped between the cracks, are crushed between the cracks, abandoned to the mercy of a culture increasingly demonstrated as psychopathic in its negligence, in its self-serving 'me too,' billions of people ready to kill for even a little bit of what they've been brainwashed into thinking they want; billions of people ready to disown life long connections over facebook memes and hashtags, the hatred, the cruelty, the eternal middle school locker room that has become human relations: for what?

i started out thinking "so we can be heard," so our broadcast signal has someplace to land: but now think it's more like, "so we're never obligated to listen, so we don't feel any responsibility toward what we hear." not only to random internet strangers who, however "astutely," write openly about their heartbreaking experiences with systemic oppression, but our own loved ones, our partners and dearest friends, our children, children we've prayed for and paid for and pay for still: because it's all about getting the most out of my experience, right? if i can have it all, you better believe i better get it. i get to have a childhood a bff a prom date a college dorm room a steady a bff an able body a beautiful face a car designer clothes a soulmate a soul a dog a house a spouse a kid another kid a lawnmower a summer vacation spot a hot tub a home stereo system a gmo free organic diet access to alternative healthcare access to anything resembling healthcare at all a day at the spa handcrafted fair traded ethically appropriated stuff permissive spirituality spiritual boon without suffering the assumption of my ultimate correctness by others power and substance a meditation regime fancy ass yoga pants freedom from negativity the authority to label anyone who pisses me off a narcissist people who agree with me people who call me strong attention and accolades acknowledgement and adoration talent and renown an important voice a voice that gets heard an opinion that matters to somebody somewhere publication designer degrees in higher education a respected internet presence enough numbness to get through today's feed enough numbness to scroll past a love one's pain to explain it away to tell my loved ones that what i am going through is so much worse and feel validated in that everything! everything everything everything we want, taken without so much as a half-hearted examination of what we actually need, and it doesn't matter what we're taking away from the planet, from society, from other people, who, as much as i might claim to love them? are not me.

yet.

that's the thing.

yet.


 
 
music: chubby wolf - on burnt, gauzed wings