another dream like -that-, another wake-up and feel the loss. how can a person that hurt me so much be resurected into memory by my subconcience
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maybe it's someone else, but either way it's time for me to take an uncomfortable and embarrassing leap.. with a story.
sometimes when i'm asleep, and too far away to care for anything of the small crumb of reality i run my soot and ash cracked fingers across in my daily rituals, my mind will reach out in the deafening darkness for something, anything. it reaches out like a mother's hand to comfort her sick shivering child from crying, down into my chest to rest upon my heart. to apologize for ever leaving, to reassure that it will be safe if they let their guard down to sleep the sickness off. and in that cold nothingness it cries to her, noisily convulsing through her ears in arrhythmic angst. a lost child, terrified and trembling in the absence of the daily fears handed down from above that keep the adrenaline and adenosine pulsing through and onward. it speaks to her in stuttering gasping words of how lonely it is in the night, when like every other night they are again separated to rest. and she replies in soft tones of all the adventures they've had together, of all the worlds they've conquered in their short lives, of all the memories they've made. and with every phrase the heart slows a little more, breathes a little softer, on through the night keeping each other company. and eventually it slows to a final gasp and a stop, jarring and reassuring like the emergency brakes of a falling elevator. like an old dog giving up the ghost in one last exhale, too tired to keep whining of the pain. and in that moment they can both rest awhile, somewhere between heartbeats, between breaths, stillness expanding into vast unending possibility. a field of fresh fallen snow to the horizons in every direction. no worries or fears, no commands, no alarms. just possibility, somewhere between alive and dead. and in that moment, that sliver of reality is cracked open. a page in a book, the two sides of print split apart into their own one sided stories. a single page opened as if it were a book itself, and inside the words backwards and masked in the grain of torn fiber, barely legible. and it's not this page number or that page number. it's two new pages created from the destruction of one, birthing dyslexic notions and wonderment in something far removed from what that now split page was first intended. and in that space, in that infinitesimal moment, i walk neither dead or alive neither asleep or awake. i walk with my brothers and sisters, the living dead, and we go this way and that stumbling in an anoxic stupor through shared memories and inexpressible emotions. we speak of all the things we were too inhibited to say, or things people never invented words for. we gaze bleary eyed and drunken at moments frozen in time by severity, sharing memories as a person does with themselves. a nexus, a point of nonpoint. the place where everything was once one and now is no more than the anomalous force of gravity. where everything was perfect before it was all blown apart to hell, and it all started racing away from itself faster and faster. but even now it tries to draw back together, as if the entire universe were full of regret for ever expanding, banding together into clusters of galaxies where it can. but it's not the same. and those who die without truly dying, to those few souls who can't be forgotten, to whom time and place became an illusion no more relevant than the holiday legends of childhood, they will sometimes go there. the very atoms of their being desire it as the homesick will wander their old street on occasion. because the subconscious knows nothing of beginning and end or there and gone, only of constants and inconstants, truth and nonsense. because that person that it knows isn't really dead, it just hasnt seen them in a while, and it asks you why. and that home that it grew up in hasn't really changed a bit, it just hasn't been to there in ages, and it asks you why. and so we wander the streets we grow up on, and dream of those we've known who've died.
and, i think, last night you caught a glimpse of that place.
sometimes when i'm asleep, and too far away to care for anything of the small crumb of reality i run my soot and ash cracked fingers across in my daily rituals, my mind will reach out in the deafening darkness for something, anything. it reaches out like a mother's hand to comfort her sick shivering child from crying, down into my chest to rest upon my heart. to apologize for ever leaving, to reassure that it will be safe if they let their guard down to sleep the sickness off. and in that cold nothingness it cries to her, noisily convulsing through her ears in arrhythmic angst. a lost child, terrified and trembling in the absence of the daily fears handed down from above that keep the adrenaline and adenosine pulsing through and onward. it speaks to her in stuttering gasping words of how lonely it is in the night, when like every other night they are again separated to rest. and she replies in soft tones of all the adventures they've had together, of all the worlds they've conquered in their short lives, of all the memories they've made. and with every phrase the heart slows a little more, breathes a little softer, on through the night keeping each other company. and eventually it slows to a final gasp and a stop, jarring and reassuring like the emergency brakes of a falling elevator. like an old dog giving up the ghost in one last exhale, too tired to keep whining of the pain. and in that moment they can both rest awhile, somewhere between heartbeats, between breaths, stillness expanding into vast unending possibility. a field of fresh fallen snow to the horizons in every direction. no worries or fears, no commands, no alarms. just possibility, somewhere between alive and dead. and in that moment, that sliver of reality is cracked open. a page in a book, the two sides of print split apart into their own one sided stories. a single page opened as if it were a book itself, and inside the words backwards and masked in the grain of torn fiber, barely legible. and it's not this page number or that page number. it's two new pages created from the destruction of one, birthing dyslexic notions and wonderment in something far removed from what that now split page was first intended. and in that space, in that infinitesimal moment, i walk neither dead or alive neither asleep or awake. i walk with my brothers and sisters, the living dead, and we go this way and that stumbling in an anoxic stupor through shared memories and inexpressible emotions. we speak of all the things we were too inhibited to say, or things people never invented words for. we gaze bleary eyed and drunken at moments frozen in time by severity, sharing memories as a person does with themselves. a nexus, a point of nonpoint. the place where everything was once one and now is no more than the anomalous force of gravity. where everything was perfect before it was all blown apart to hell, and it all started racing away from itself faster and faster. but even now it tries to draw back together, as if the entire universe were full of regret for ever expanding, banding together into clusters of galaxies where it can. but it's not the same. and those who die without truly dying, to those few souls who can't be forgotten, to whom time and place became an illusion no more relevant than the holiday legends of childhood, they will sometimes go there. the very atoms of their being desire it as the homesick will wander their old street on occasion. because the subconscious knows nothing of beginning and end or there and gone, only of constants and inconstants, truth and nonsense. because that person that it knows isn't really dead, it just hasnt seen them in a while, and it asks you why. and that home that it grew up in hasn't really changed a bit, it just hasn't been to there in ages, and it asks you why. and so we wander the streets we grow up on, and dream of those we've known who've died.
and, i think, last night you caught a glimpse of that place.
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