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27 October 2016 @ 06:45 pm
but the airwaves are clean and there's nobody singing to me now  
there's a kind of stillness. there's a place where the stillness collects.

there's a place of gathering and a place of retreat. collected at the corners, in the places where thought could go:

there's a place where this is nothing. a passing glance, a possibility unrealized and dropped back into the bottomless receptacle of unrealized possibilities. hands touching, fingers linking, but nothing really remembered or held. you want to be remembered. you want to mean something to the people who mean something to you. why don't i mean something to someone who meant something to me? of course i mean someone specific, of course this is a path traversed so many times it's damn near eroding stone, but there are moments when this really does not feel like the way things are supposed to be: but what do i do with that? i have mismatched metaphysical socks. my psychic t-shirt is on inside out. i'm piled up with clutter, nothing goes back to its proper place when i'm done using it, though there's always a chance it didn't have that place to start out with. i am not a tidy person. i'm tired. i'm sad. i don't know that this is going anywhere, and to be perfectly honest. to be perfectly honest. to be perfectly honest, but then i don't know that i've been even passably honest for the last year (at least).

i'm climbing all over myself. i'm crawling out of my skin. creepy crawlies, broad sweeps of shivers, staring back at myself again and again and again. is that another fine line? am i sprouting a zit? can i really afford to be shedding this much hair? trapped between puberty and geriatric solutions, as i ever am. who am i looking at when i look at myself? it isn't me. at least, it isn't the same person that other people see when they look at me from across assorted distances, be it inches, be it miles, be it in person or conveyed in photographs, mixed media, or text. where am i for myself?

i'm lost at sea.

i'm missing in action.

i've begun to presume a thing or two.

i'm gathering up my own numbers: there's a kind of sincerity in that, at least, even if it isn't simply put cut and dried on the surface in the cold with the shakes rattling hard hear me now hear me then, remember what i said, remember who i am, do you understand who i could be? i'm so conflicted about my expectations, my reasons for having them along with whatever it is they might be. what are my expectations?

doctor’s orders piled up on the nightstand: blood work a sonogram a mammogram and

so many secrets in the blood.

there's this strange ecology to my desire. maybe it's not strange as much as it is anachronistic. who thinks like this when they're forty? who thinks like this when they're thirty? honestly now: who thinks like this? i do. i don't know and i don't understand it and then and again i've tied myself up in knots and i'm piled up i'm cluttered up i really don't know i really couldn't say just keep it rolling keep it diving spell it out break it down break it up you say remember to learn the proper pronunciation i'm trying to get your attention i've been trying to compel you to say something but maybe it's hopeless maybe this isn't going anywhere, maybe that decisions been made just as it’s always been and i’m just not worth it in the bitter bitter end. i don't know. i couldn't say. why would i know? what could i say?

the wind raises itself up, the wind whistles, the wind roars, the wind sings. i wanted to understand it. i really wanted to understand it. i wanted to bring it into my life and explore what it could have meant. instead, nothing. instead negation. instead all this nothing piled up to nowhere piled up on my clutter piled up in my corners piling up to crisis points in every direction and then again maybe and maybe and maybe again

music: bohren & der club of gore - gore motel