There is something hideously horrid about the whole house.
The long lines of waits;
queuing behind yourself and the last time you lurched around
with the same intent,
the same personal providence.
The heaps of perfectly thoughtful questions at the door.
The rooms that always stay disabled and empty,
no matter how high stuff, that you keep dragging along,
gets stacked in them.
How can you stand it? How can you deal with those halls of things to be tackled any longer?
Wouldn’t it be a true relief to see it all fall apart. To feel it burst.
To close half the doors and ignore most of the open ones left. Or all of them.
To close down ambition altogether.
Things want to be meaningless and open.
Things don’t want to be clear or sizeable. Nor manageable.
Meaning is a spur of the moment commitment. Behind the meaning of meaning lingers the absence of question. Asleep and perfect.
Almost like an absolution of doubts. The more relative state.
A delicate but stern decision on a glorious and vivid and hallow day.
Like an irreversible lever you pull down, amazed at the ease in which it falls.
The lever wants to jump down, it almost flips over all on its own.
Your mere fragment of a thought of moving it plunges it nether.
Dreams of past mistakes follow you around for a while.
With filthy smiles of white teeth.
All teeth. All the time.
The grief of inconsideration or not being considered.
The fear of forgetting lost moments or becoming one.
The pain of not having invested all of your best in those special precious seconds.
The pungent loss. The thievery. Your defilement.
What we wouldn’t do for second chances.
How it leaves us dangling with all the friends of remorse and regret.
And how close friends they could be by another name. From another place.
If only to do it better or close to right the next time over.
As if you will ever divine the long anticipated. There is no chance in hell.
Flutter and flirt with time.
Dive into the essentials of what is happening as it is happening.
The more you are willing to compress and inject in some random space of time, the more mass it will have.
The more body, the longer the memory. The deeper engraved the lines are.
Only depth will flash by once the sparrow gulps you down whole.
Flood your self, your soul and the miracles will lash out at you.
As they have at many before you.
As they keep coming to me, as I invest all of myself,
submerged, seemingly careless and freed from distant wants.
Take it all in with your dry eyes. Wide, crazed and bewildered.
Cut your eyelids if you must, but never again close your eyes or the dreams are sure to fade.
If by now, you feel a slight panic of losing momentum.
Don’t trip. It will last.
If you don't feel anything, thats fine too.
The long lines of waits;
queuing behind yourself and the last time you lurched around
with the same intent,
the same personal providence.
The heaps of perfectly thoughtful questions at the door.
The rooms that always stay disabled and empty,
no matter how high stuff, that you keep dragging along,
gets stacked in them.
How can you stand it? How can you deal with those halls of things to be tackled any longer?
Wouldn’t it be a true relief to see it all fall apart. To feel it burst.
To close half the doors and ignore most of the open ones left. Or all of them.
To close down ambition altogether.
Things want to be meaningless and open.
Things don’t want to be clear or sizeable. Nor manageable.
Meaning is a spur of the moment commitment. Behind the meaning of meaning lingers the absence of question. Asleep and perfect.
Almost like an absolution of doubts. The more relative state.
A delicate but stern decision on a glorious and vivid and hallow day.
Like an irreversible lever you pull down, amazed at the ease in which it falls.
The lever wants to jump down, it almost flips over all on its own.
Your mere fragment of a thought of moving it plunges it nether.
Dreams of past mistakes follow you around for a while.
With filthy smiles of white teeth.
All teeth. All the time.
The grief of inconsideration or not being considered.
The fear of forgetting lost moments or becoming one.
The pain of not having invested all of your best in those special precious seconds.
The pungent loss. The thievery. Your defilement.
What we wouldn’t do for second chances.
How it leaves us dangling with all the friends of remorse and regret.
And how close friends they could be by another name. From another place.
If only to do it better or close to right the next time over.
As if you will ever divine the long anticipated. There is no chance in hell.
Flutter and flirt with time.
Dive into the essentials of what is happening as it is happening.
The more you are willing to compress and inject in some random space of time, the more mass it will have.
The more body, the longer the memory. The deeper engraved the lines are.
Only depth will flash by once the sparrow gulps you down whole.
Flood your self, your soul and the miracles will lash out at you.
As they have at many before you.
As they keep coming to me, as I invest all of myself,
submerged, seemingly careless and freed from distant wants.
Take it all in with your dry eyes. Wide, crazed and bewildered.
Cut your eyelids if you must, but never again close your eyes or the dreams are sure to fade.
If by now, you feel a slight panic of losing momentum.
Don’t trip. It will last.
If you don't feel anything, thats fine too.