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I don't remember at all.--

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  • I don't remember at all.--

    Long ago I -- or I should say: long ago the pattern crashed. I witnessed horrific what I couldn't explain, the dark ways of my life. To sit and try to reason with anyone, a raised brow or a perked ear; what else other than ... to chime in at some sudden time, and allow for the music to slowly move me. Like dancing motes upon the air, halting the atmosphere; like sprites relinquished from the night, to haunt what's left of the sun within me. See my waving face become the light I so pronounced 'true';-- then everything looks, finally, like you. As does the wave surrender upon the shores its secrets, lights so numerous, and saddening tides of gleaming mails -- the shells of all the detritus we've known and not. Take a shutter of this scene, in maddening hope: trying to be held up. Like water in my arms, and I try to move you, somehow like a boom, to move the particles further in a wave: breaking static in the air. Such a standing-wave, to look and delight, and then die in the eventual cataclysm. The aftermath unspoken of. See little traces of flesh covered with metal, inserted into these chips: See the silverfish, the biting sonic platform of these radial waves -- so immediately shocking, sap for the bones to swim. Little euphoric bursts, enchanting like the delicateness of a pillow that's cold on a warm face. No tear tonight, I refuse to cry, the pillow is dry, and I can still manage to ask myself Why. It is saddening, not in a disconcerting way -- the way we puzzle this out, with everything to talk to and about at the right moment, like jaws somehow piercing my deft skin, and I raise in bumps this flesh I've come to love. Touch. Scintillate at midnight; the might of the seams which are like teeth which hold me. Close your eyes and my eyes will be closed too -- the lightning behind me, and all the stars wheeling. A storm tonight. This is what is happening.

    More like those rivers deep inside the ocean, different temperatures, different currents. It is cool water on my skin, and I can glance at these depths, so cold, so immediate. Are you afraid of the dark silence? Things survive here where we could not dream, and all of the swimming things are made of the same thing as you and I. You can enter the eddies which revivify, tingling to the core, and see the spores and fungi underwater glow, like love that spaced itself out, and shut its eyes only to see with more than itself. Know me, and love me, these times where the broken heart is covered in warm bubbles, my entire being shudders. I effervesce. To know you and to love you, my being's touch and the reverberating echoes which issue from this Love. More than any one being could handle, or understand; give me all of what you are. We shall see the scrying parade of underwater beings, in a serenade of the moving sea, next to our moving eternity. We travel through time, in words or in ideas losing shape. And we gain our propensity to swim ... deeper down. Into the darknesses which catch us in angles, how the little pieces of water are floating. It's skin upon skin, and my mask is so heavy. I want to wrap my arms around your plants, and sleep in the murk of the dust we've kicked up, for love sonnets written in the pale sand, near to the bottom where my hand ... shatters downward. Blue. So many pieces of us. Do you tend to get so mixed up, like I have lost what I thought mattered; do you, too, understand the fragile pattern, wherein we can contract 'disease' from these schools of light? What bit of light ANYWHERE has ever known pure oblivious black? That shade of obisidian which edges these scaled dreams, to a scintillae of our rocking currents, jettisoned unto the moveless center upon which this all pivots? Is there some closure to the questions, some midnight dip in a more remote recess, in which the caves so hollowed out house infant creatures unknown to our flesh? O how does the night taste, to have everything suddenly lined up, and the suckers from the fish suck the sight from your eyes,-- where in these caverns all sight is unshining, and there are still monuments, landmarks. Columns inside the Dark Sea. Can you move in perpetuity. How the angels might dive with the featherless wings, unobtrusive, while listening to the heartbeat of the Wave? Can you imagine, and remember those faraway shores, where the clothes we wore were human, and the living light still dances in rememrance of Us? What we are. Where we have been. What our hands have touched. All for one thing. From one membrane, entirely subsumed, like cork in the water, or sponges sucking up color. Move my being with your movelessness, can you thrive without? Always make room for the Opposites, where wars and peace are so precious to them. They whose faces have turned. They recall not the emptied silence, upon which the sea cracks the shore. They remember the slowly shutting eyelids. I don't remember at all.

    I want to withstand the lack of any rays of light, and let float the motes and corpuscles. Little fileaments of light stream by; I can try to remember the ghosts of the past. Not much of that matters now, rocking in this abyss. Listening through the tunnel, it is like thunder underwater. Some large thing moving its body, probably not anything warm. Arm over arm over the sea, high above me; jumping in a dive, from out of the water, in a challenge to gravity. Caught timeless in my eye, like some sunken beam which was lost when it began. These things have no home: The house is the waves, oceans of them, beating senseless morse code upon the sanctimonious shores. Enough metal on the land to congest unto failure any being. Not to mention the toxic emissions, and the words they fail to recognize they're using. Living so close to the morass and miasma, one with the fog, with the smoke coming from your lungs, you learn to be natural: Like hanging mist from the lip over some great canyon. Dive deep into the skeleton-glittering tide, where foam the little crustaceans, all crabby and with claws. See their armored bodies so agile, gathering between their pinions the flesh. More flesh, billowing over, and the pockets of hot air rising up from the cracks in the ocean floor. O sulphureous Night of unliving life beneath these waves. So deep down, within your abyssal heart, I can gain refuge. Knowing that Life here flags, and all the dramatic puffery from before, is non-existent. Somewhere, sometime, there WAS reprieve. We were allowed to share it with one another. We were able to understand what we were going through together. It made sense, then, these rising temperatures, and the magmatic cracks, strictures in the earth, where her strained blood rises boiling to the freezing surfaces. Now you have ... our Interlunar substrate: the Moon frozen Over, with very few cracks in the ice. Try and penetrate, but her core will bloom poison, sulphureous. Burning the eyes and the skin. Here, extremes rule. Here, very little life survives. That which does, we give the credit to its bizarre reality it has had to become adapted to. We have to come to understand, that when we pry and when we prod ... Our hands might well be in the wrong spot. Our ships might be crafted wrong, our lips still might pollute the world. Why, O why, dear small human being, do you needlessly suffer. It must be that you are afraid of the changes being too drastic. Anyone who doesn't survive, however, never kicks up much fuss later. We can just float away. We don't even need Happiness. Here beneath the tumult, with no boots to stomp the flowers and vegetation, things can happen naturally. That is why we are alive, we must come to understand. For we are ports within the network of some scheme that's much more than Machine. We act beyond thought. We understand beyond words. We see without knowing how. The suppositions, our wrecked lot, the waves carrying away our home and our insurance for life. Our entire being was built here. That is why we give it all, and surrender it unto the sea. Under the waves, new things happen. Love comes again.

  • #2
    I plan on adding atleast another 'branch', to do with the beginning, some Horror, I think. Thank you For bearing with me

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    • #3
      i felt that if i didnt read to the end i might miss something, a new image, a new mataohor, a feeling as only you could describe it. thank you

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      • amenOra
        amenOra commented
        Editing a comment
        thank you, and as only you could receive! -- I appreciate the sentiment, thank you, joy to share.

        Yes, I did make the blocks of text so challenging, on purpose. I enjoyed being engulfed underwater, simple as that. I hope that you did as well!

    • #4
      Your manner of writing is like one long string of consciousness rambled out in symbiotic abundance. I'll need additional reads to catch the connections. Thankfully, there is time.

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      • amenOra
        amenOra commented
        Editing a comment
        A friend barakh who came here years ago called it 'modified stream of consciousness' and that's pretty much right. Its a challenge, which I enjoy and seek, to see how deep the connections are, given any specific material. I appreciate your comment, and I hope it provides some enrichment, to someone or something. Glad that it seems to have. Thanks
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