stinkbug

she said it would always need to be a secret if the knowledge were bestowed upon me. being a demi-god, however, she knew exactly what i would do. with each blink, she analyzed algorithms of every movement of all of the strands of my straw-like hair. she foresaw. still, she let me play the game.

she said it would always need to be a secret if the knowledge were bestowed upon me.

“why?”

anyone would want to know. it was simple enough of a question, but i knew she would never answer. her smirk evolved into one of those deja vus which lasts entirely too long until you cannot tell wake from dreaming. i had seen the exact moment time and time again and i was sure of it, but of course i could not figure how or why. this moment had been forever coming…perhaps repeating…and yet it was unrecognizable.

though vague, i saw through the illusion, for mere milliseconds.

those people that brag and boast, “i know something, but i cannot tell you.”
clear as glass, you probably saw through their illusions? did you not?
and have you never mourned the loss of the delusion of “humanity” in the night time?
did you cringe and perhaps pull the blankets a little tighter around your shoulders?

little black bugs, bed bugs, and slugs don’t have a reason to mourn.

i suppose neither do we since we prefer counting sheep to being in sects.

sense or ship

you would hide right here as your sole hobby, trusting me, never honoring the frivolous. you would rest underneath my crook of my arm where you found it a bit sweet even against all of that sour. our two formed pieces of flesh would merge into one and synergy would come in the form of energy and for a moment i would feel that we could be god. but only if we were an i.

i used to write to prisoners regularly as one of my sole hobbies. they would begin to trust me. i let them hide in the verbiage and not worry about the darkness. their cold narratives rested inside of me and i found a bit of sweetness even against all of the sour. two separate realities merged into one understanding through the letters and synergy came in the form of energy and for a moment the pages felt like they could be a bible. but only if they were a book.

people used to burn books. people still burn books. people will burn all of the books.

these days, they claim they just like to “kindle fire.”

the right to bear stains

yesterday i had the pleasure of conversing with a wall. she said her name was ego. she also claimed to know me in ways that i wasn’t brave enough to comprehend, and yes, i’m aware that suggests i had some control in the matter. furthermore, she stated that i lack understanding even during my more accurate moments.  it was implied that i could use some guidance.  my response shocked us both, maybe.

“okay,” i said, and with that, i decided to let her lead. i am not a follower by nature.
her road, though radiating, was rocky. i was tossed to and fro, but i did not flinch.
yesterday, i was not afraid.
“let me teach you a thing or two about fear.”
“okay,” i heard my own voice agree as i bravely committed to the unknown.

she was going to take everything.
she wanted it all.
i was to crumble – that was the lesson.

so i did. and even saying that, i am still downplaying the situation. i shattered when i did not believe i could be broken. i found myself, at sunrise, gazing at that same depressing spot where i let my eyes rest every time i knew with complete certainty that none of this could ever mean anything at all.

moments later, i found myself in the dark. i had a vague memory of attempting to put myself to sleep permanently. i was pretty sure i had dealt with myself once and for all, but i could still feel her presence.

i was falling down a long dark tunnel before being violently forced backwards. this falling was accompanied by a screech i could only understand to be her voice. it grew louder and louder like an incoming train until it vibrated inside each and every one of my pores as though a tornado was passing directly through me.
she swallowed me whole prior to regurgitating me back up. my rotting cells were infused again with actual biology and all at once,
i felt.

she, then, seemed to be some sort of mixed up undertaker.  i began to believe that she had revived me against my will, or at least without my permission. aside from the bulimic revival episode, her manners were exquisite. she never displayed rudeness, unlike the others. we spoke of cities that did not exist on any map i’d encountered and of knowledge which escaped language. i found comfort in her essence during that period and eventually in myself, as well.

it took her eight straight weeks to admit, finally, that what i thought were my fresh lively eyes were, in fact, dead eyes.
that’s what she said. she said my eyes appeared dead.

“have you ever seen someone with cataracts?”

my aura, she swore, had blurred.
i think “blurred” was a polite word choice. i sensed hesitation.
so there i was with all of this knowing lacking any hint of concrete fact. just this sickening knowing that logic could not whisk away.
was she the elevator man – the tech support from the afterlife of Vanilla Sky?
or was she simply a messenger, trying to tell me, ever so carefully, that i had died?
not metaphorically the way it had seemed during that sunrise, but
actually died?
did my vessel actually reside, decaying, elsewhere?

maybe i was no longer living in the sense that i once was or believed i was. things, certainly, had changed. if our reality was somewhat seamlessly connected to the “after-life” experience, what signs could be given? and could one actually be vomited back into existence?

i was no longer sure that i was alive in the traditional sense.
i did not mean this metaphorically.
i was afraid that i was actually,
literally,
dead.

suddenly i recalled one of my favorite quotes: “everything you need to know you can find by looking at your hands.”

i frantically began to examine the lines on my fingers and palms, checking for discrepancies, only to realize i never really knew my own hands in the first place. analysis proved inconclusive. ghastly thought forms threatened to project as they fed off of chaotic spirits of fear which surrounded me.

“SILENCE!”

immediately the dark energy was replaced by a dull hum which calmed me. but who had given the command?

she was nowhere to be found, but i did notice a stain on a book from my childhood that had never been there before. and then another in the exact same place on a different book, and then another, and another, and…

on board or in tow?

when decisions were to be made, i was likely to falter.  i’d become aware of it immediately, feel burdened by a sense of rush, and then hastily choose incorrectly.  my decisiveness resembled my lack of navigational direction.  i’d hated change, always, and i would hide from it.  my weakness was thick and obvious.  still, despite this hideous display of ugliness, i’d continue to strut with a certain arrogance, making it all the worse.

who was i?

and why did the air seem to grow thick the moment my proud, unworthy foot stepped into a room?

mary

“just call me mary,” she stated quite simplistically. after all, she held these things close to her heart and she pondered them.

distractions from attraction

but is there such a thing as having death on the tip
of a tongue?

what to say, then, for the dying man whose tongue has been ripped from his throat?

it has been suggested that riddles and puzzles are only distractions from attraction, none of which result in action. i’d hereby like to make a retraction.

to firmly understand anything is actually to understand nothing whatsoever. our silly oxymorons demonstrate the impossibilities of our dichotomies and the limitations of any so-called wisdom.

“do not try and bend the spoon, it is impossible.”

“my blanket covers me”

and she told me, “the world may be disappointed in whatever you think you’ve become, but i think you shine even in the dark under your blankets”

downfall

a monumental mistake was the widely held belief that subliminal messaging was not and could not be effective.

“it’s been proven,” said the masses, their heads all ajar.

the ultimate downfall happened the way depression’s onset has been described: “gradually and then suddenly.” to be fair, awareness was not widespread. even those with hints of knowledge had a tendency to intimidate and fumble at the mere prospect of awakening another. awakening was rare. it’s been said that the awake knew they could never win, but continued attempting to spread the word if only to feel they had washed away some of the bloody filth inflicted upon them by the controllers.

the craftsmanship sickened. they created aesthetically perfect vessels, entirely void of soul. blind to the differences, we immediately fell down, worshipping their apparent superiority. with empty eyes, they ruled the collective conscious. they created and controlled hatred, greed, and perhaps to the most detriment, lust. humanity immersed itself in soulless vessels until the actual soul was unrecognizable. the actual soul became as an alien.

a vessel once tweeted, “everything you need to know you can find by looking at your hands.”

i glanced down at my fingers briefly in confusion. then i continued to scroll.

and scroll. and scroll. and scroll. and scroll.

“everything you need to know you can find by looking at your hands.”

stone

my brain buries my memories.  on the other hand, i tend to be an extremely well-documented person so no slate of mine is ever entirely wiped clean.

on one day in particular, i had absolutely no content and i was consumed with emptiness. upon attempting to speak, i stuttered.  consequently, the decision was made to ingest old content rather than to create and i set out to dig up old expressions of previous inhabitants.  these mostly consisted of young emotional ramblings i tend to find cringe-worthy, but suddenly i was wallowing in it.  to my utmost surprise and horror, there were tears, and the next thing i knew i was dragging you into my self-induced nightmare.

all of the concepts within seemed foreign.  the pieces of me lacked any resemblance to the whole that currently inhabited my vessel. and there was this raw brutal honesty, but through it i could only see weakness.  and there was this sting and a putrid sour which accompanied it all.  witnessing, first hand, the loss of who i was in exchange for what i’ve become made all of it seem final.  and i grieved, slightly, for remnants of a self left behind.

“you’ve got a soft spot.”

like a stone, i claimed.  because it was true in ways… though sometimes it wasn’t.  i can tell that you know that.  i can tell that you know i won’t speak of this weakness.

i can promise you that we will never speak of it.

in between raindrops in the garage, i imagined you were exhaling all that was in exchange for what is.  i wondered if you cried, then, but mostly i doubted it.

excuses

you skated on granite countertops.

but surely you were laid back and not in the least high maintenance, you swore, because after all, you would eat off of paper plates with no problem.

i winced at that.  you laughed.  i’ll give you credit for that.

i always made excuses. i admired how forgiving you were each time i’d rudely rush off.  i sensed love even in the way you’d shake your head with that attitude,

“you make me sick.  i can’t.”

like that, you’d pull down your sunglasses and make your grand exit.  and i’d drive off quickly then, as though desperately needed elsewhere, in an attempt to be free from your disapproving gaze a mere second sooner.

you were, undoubtedly, a pride-hitter.

i left you with strange phone numbers and vaguely familiar email addresses when i’d hastily announce my spur-of-the-moment decisions to “fall back.”  and you’d laugh at me each morning when i’d return the same way –

“hey.”

anyway the saga seemed more beautiful broken, we both agreed.  you’d smack me, hard, when you thought about the reality of my absence and i’d smirk, deserving it, loving the pain just to feel anything…anything at all.

i always made excuses.

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