affliction -- or, right is a world
where to begin, where to begin. lately, it's been difficult to recall a beginning. it seems like everything has always just been going and going -- a piston that always was in motion. i wish the truth, instead of being a state, were just a red steel door in north dakota, where i could just take an airplane and fly out there on a whim to a barn in the middle of nowhere, and run inside and peel apart the hay, and there it would be waiting for me, inconspicuously. but of course i wouldn't get there in time, and as i saw it lying in front of me, the black van would be there to take me back.
but that would be too easy, wouldn't it -- too cumulative.
it wouldn't fit the blueprint, the archetype set out for everyone.
"right" is a far off country lately, beckoned away by my own reasoning. i'll think about writing a letter to the people who inhabit it someday. i can only imagine who could possibly be a part of it.
is that all we are, is what we cultivate from the senses, from media?
that's the great filter -- the senses take in what they like for the brain.
i imagine it to shoot through my eyes like a crack of sunlight,
hitting the earth in me and sprouting the raw ores.
if that's the case, then i feel like an overexposed x-ray.
i believe in the substance of nothing.
but rather, i wish i could take those figments of what i love,
and gather it all up in my hands, soaked in a rag -- and squeeze
the life out of it until it's rawness spills out, covering my hands.
i feel so silly being alive. i honestly do, and i think it shows,
and why people feel uneasy around me.
the die collide as stars --
one cold green spark,
and a baby is born.
will you give this chance a name?
it can't always be the same.
but that would be too easy, wouldn't it -- too cumulative.
it wouldn't fit the blueprint, the archetype set out for everyone.
"right" is a far off country lately, beckoned away by my own reasoning. i'll think about writing a letter to the people who inhabit it someday. i can only imagine who could possibly be a part of it.
is that all we are, is what we cultivate from the senses, from media?
that's the great filter -- the senses take in what they like for the brain.
i imagine it to shoot through my eyes like a crack of sunlight,
hitting the earth in me and sprouting the raw ores.
if that's the case, then i feel like an overexposed x-ray.
i believe in the substance of nothing.
but rather, i wish i could take those figments of what i love,
and gather it all up in my hands, soaked in a rag -- and squeeze
the life out of it until it's rawness spills out, covering my hands.
i feel so silly being alive. i honestly do, and i think it shows,
and why people feel uneasy around me.
the die collide as stars --
one cold green spark,
and a baby is born.
will you give this chance a name?
it can't always be the same.