(no subject)
My heart just doesn't know what to do anymore. Its at odds with all things sane. Its so tangled that even love might just feel like a crocodile death twirl, I wouldn't know for sure. Its pulled to each corner of the continent, tossed like leather on a foot ball field, buried, knotted, pretzeled, inflated, glorified, humiliated, blind, swollen, heralded, and molded all over again into some semblance of what it was supposed to be.
There's a field inside of me today. The grass is green, there's butterflies and the most perfect blue sky, there's an apple orchard, bales of hay, a red tractor leaning ever so slightly in a patch of alfalfa. There's birch and pine shooting into the heavens. There's clouds spaced so precisely, so soft and warm, that maybe they could have been painted. But it all evades observation. It exists centerless. Om.
My molecules are forgetting themselves. I try to hold them still, in place, but they burst outward effortlessly. Everywhere at all once. There's words which have no sound, no form. Everywhere all at once. Om.
There's a field inside of me today. The grass is green, there's butterflies and the most perfect blue sky, there's an apple orchard, bales of hay, a red tractor leaning ever so slightly in a patch of alfalfa. There's birch and pine shooting into the heavens. There's clouds spaced so precisely, so soft and warm, that maybe they could have been painted. But it all evades observation. It exists centerless. Om.
My molecules are forgetting themselves. I try to hold them still, in place, but they burst outward effortlessly. Everywhere at all once. There's words which have no sound, no form. Everywhere all at once. Om.