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"Just cause you feel it Doesn't mean it's there"

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  • "Just cause you feel it Doesn't mean it's there"

    The night they came for you, you sat in the darkness without windows, waiting for something, maybe the morning touch of cold light? It always matters less where we've been; most of it went unfelt, if there wasn't a reason to feel. If we walked out into the grey, unresponsive daylight, and tried to touch it, or get it to expose itself. Waiting underneath the bark, and deeper than the scales allow, there is such a light moving around the bowels of this being. Wild, and massive. A swallowing contraction. Count upon one hand the things which matter. Count the steps between fear and yourself. The snake is a mean snake; it tries to devour you. And if it catches you, how will you ever remain what you are right now?

    Pipe down, do not speak. Listen intently. In these same rooms the grasp was felt, extending beyond these days. Even the light stood still, and yet faded. Banners on the doors, ensigns, adages failing us. Why is this day so unforgiving. You get so choked up with such feeling. And the wonder, will it ever end? Half-scared you're going to usher that end in; half wanting, more expecting after the initial sinking realization. I might take an amplified winter morning, and multiply it by five. Snow-angels long-since paved over, a smile in a window, darkness overcomes. And the chapter, -- long and drawn out, the color melting outside; flakes of snow. Get out of that corner where you lived forever.

    It has taken me much longer to figure anything that matters out: On the wall the dirt still sticks, and my face hides the initial outpouring of feelings. I put a shield up, and a mask. It's like i could slip away beneath this mask which never moves. It's like it matters less why I understand it, and more that I do. And the want to be understood, naturally. Following the grass down a path to instead just flop down, and sit. Here in the altered day. Can you hear me sing? The day should contain people worried about how each other's hair looks. We should tie and untie eagerly our shoes. We should revolutionize the corners with theories of economics made real. We should pave the stars with our smiles. Isn't the cloud much like marble? White as an elephant, only if the elephant were covered in caked mud. So he makes a trumpet of his nose, and the snout calls out, she's mad.

    In her head play the lovesongs she simultaneously uses to escape into and out of the world. It depends; because we belong in another's arms. You know the way we fit together isn't like pain. You know the surety calls you. Make this moment. Anything. Just to hear moving in the walls whatever this is ... alive. Contingent. Hinged, perhaps hung on a nail, with dividing pillars. Take a column in the middle, and spaced out to the windows. Most dust gathers. It's breathing that makes this place warm. We need more people like you.

    But. Shut up, she said. It's not you. It's not like you to take someone's ideal of a dream and scatter it, up for grabs. It's not just going to die: Can we clear the slate? Change from Philosophical to ...anything else? You stop listening after a while. I know the pages of this are stained with ink and fingertips. The way a moment slides. I could be next to you. Closer than anything. It's so enticing. It's what i ruminate on... why not just use what we love, sustaining this light, a bath of silver for fishes to delight in? Can you truly hear, and mean with me? No, nothing matters as much as going beyond that chance, to say, for once, what it means. It all happens together, so that my fear is also my courage. You get the story.

    Rings grow around me. The planets still await a dawning star, to crown the surrounding area;-- the orbit of a dying star, emitting tangled in the poisons of you. If it gets bigger, I grow smaller. Weird how that works. I just finally Listened. I wanted to listen more. I wanted 'more' to be enough. To finally listen, and go beyond the fear of death; ah, the fingers stain everything. If only i had pure concentration. Not a gradual thing, but all at once. A force to be reckoned with. Waiting and listening to your voice, and i wait and wonder why. Time runs through my hands like velvet, and the stars stream like sweet music to my soulless being. Wind moves through me. I do not care.

    I try to keep my hand closed in a fist; my world of closed-circuit blood-beating. Information i begin to understand, the cranium of the Sky, it's little feet like propellers in the waters, stirred up. Next to nothing. Why did i ever allow you to hurt my feelings? It made it worse that my own withdrawal was what made me sick, but dealing with you also did. It's that split, inside me. Communication deviance. It's not supposed to matter what i feel, or see that only i should see. You should bother explaining. Like, inside the darkness, what emits some form of a pulse, it's a wave -- dancing across the metal rivers of my silvery soul. Fireflies who've broken through into day, and then night becomes like they are: pointed in darkness, moving in clouds, stopping light from reflecting. A bastion.

    I can follow, i can feel the swallowing gape; an afternoon in the nape of the tree, a king with her roots forming a chair. The roots form everywhere. From the middle. Sand sinks into the sea, water gushes upon the shore. Unhappy silence, I wanted this to matter more. There's no one to blame. Where you were, where you went,-- I cannot understand. I looked for you, i turned corners only to find. My tears not half-way home, and my arms with no color or warmth of life in them;-- I missed you, and maybe it is bad, the wrong thing. You and I cannot blame each other for what we miss.

    It doesn't always accord. You tried to give the light, and the light was taken. Now the Grey owns the day. The world lives in a dirge, floating boat on fire, roses in their silent soliloquy-- i wonder at what captured moment you've framed from your own throne?-- How to caper, while i might not hold up more than my skeleton. I think of how we have to be separate to wake up in the morning and meet. ...Or that is the fact of it. That we must dream at all. We love in silence the beingness which thrives within the gazeless fullness which suffuses our being. We let the tenseness move from us. From the darkness, shifting seas and sands, black against white forever. Because I could not swallow everything. Because none of that ever mattered as much as Right now.

    I try to further understand. Like sitting next to you, with your crown in the heavy heights, my crown pushed up against the branches, where the leaves untangle from the rhizome;-- the tree turns silvery. Medicament, I understand, for the lovely lauded being so sorely in need. I am here, i keep things Chaste: though there is more than being to passive listening, i am well aware what that might mean, turned against me. I realize the plays, how powerful beings do not get that way by never falling. But if they hit the ground. Have you heard the Earth shake? Have you felt the ground break? What will it take. What did it ever take. I have to uncover your face; that mask i put on is so worn out on you. And i understand. You can understand, too, the well-appointed measure.

    Time to care for Other things. Yourself made up in the silver mirrors, flashing cat-like, entrancing. Maybe there is more to beauty than ...

    Maybe there is more of this morning than Greyworlds of flaky itchy paint? Give me a mothwing, half in my mouth. Do i burp up smoke? Or laugh to the world, while i sit suddenly outside, beside myself. I can detach from you now. I can forgive, allow, and let go. This is my allowance. May you go to guide the others as you wished you could have me: And maybe you did put me here? I can understand how it's unable to be understood. It co-arises with us. Fancy flame of paint. You almost melt my eyes. I try to touch your edgings; I try to fill you like the sky. But the presents that we buy, and the presents we bring back. The angels, made of fire, lip-curls and guile. Thunder-- eyes the color of lightning. Sticks battalions against the silent dreamy soupiness. My eyes pale over;-- shades in my eyes turn, and change what I knew. It doesn't return.... It cannot return anymore, anyway. There is a final resting flatness, hollow echo and then nothing. Where we danced, the steps we took, words we spoke, the bitterness no longer hangs Next to us. I am gone, alone, and this is better ...

    An oak leaf flat upon the rock, its veins slowly pump.

    ---

    So much life in this darkgreen world.
    Last edited by amenOra; 11-01-2017, 02:19 AM.

  • #2
    this is dazzling, inventive, beautiful, heartfelt! as is everything you write😊 i do say though that strong spirits are only tolerable in small measure. imagine if for example Edgar Allan Poe was a novelist, our minds wouldn't likely take it.

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    • #3
      Only tolerable in small measure? Except to themselves lol!!

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      • #4
        n yet his mentor, right, Mr Cthulu mythos, he was a great spirit, and a novelist. Or does something else qualify novelist? I know Poe didn't write 'novels' per se. He was different. This is true. Because the genius burns to strong, maybe.

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        • #5
          yes yes! lol spirits like whiskey i mean. just a little or add water. 😁

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          • #6
            The currents you hatch
            are heady to catch

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            • #7
              I need to revisit this and absorb it more but truly enjoyed it. It’s like reading all the thoughts a person has ever had - kept me reading.
              Last edited by AlexandratheLate; 11-02-2017, 02:48 AM.

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              • #8
                Ooooh boy. I am in need of a nap. In a good way.

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                • #9
                  Wow. Intense separation anxiety and well told stages of loss. Maybe it is for the better. Entrancing, amenOra!

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