to you because you asked in a way,
the danger of why, the sea sorrow of questioning the question of the questioner,
at the counter top of my kitchen, all seems a pale warm glow of normalcy (as it is not) filling my stomach with acidic melting appreciation that i could never name (or rather admit to). when your scars stare at you from across the room, in mild flirtation, beckoning at you with their promise of a numb solitude, or a harsh realization, a rehashing of all that has been left to rot with abandon in the backyard conscious peekhole, all that you needed to move out to continue ... the stink lingers however hard this bleaching white will chemically change my mind, add another glass surface
this is not peace of mind, but pieces of uneaten cake, sliced in two down the middle ---abdomen of this insect dormancy, birthing sporadically and a thousand times the wrong evolutions, not in needed public view. i can and do ignore, however much i do not want to, however much this flickering ideal of self will tell me this is not who i am ... however much i desire to smash the window panes of translucency i stare through day after day
but feeling, testing, gravity pulling planets and stars of your hidden creations to melt into a corner and not move or twitch for days ...heal these gravity cavity enclaves ... reactionary to the nth cloud of a daisy-ed daydream elysium ... i can never fit these social language curtails, instead i spin here silently, spider efficient and effervescently bubbling to be freed of all this controlled definition ... so magneticized to the stars subconscious, i could never trust this will enough to have one anymore, wishing more that it would exist rather than completing the cyclical strands that tell me it goes no where
my spiders and my window washers are busy all day ... and they taunt me with their perfected ability to wipe this surface clean, taking good care never to show me the marks...to keep these glaringly selfish intentions from peeking over the brim of id and the superego to relinquish its idealistic boundaries of definitive straight lines in reality, but this is all symbolic metaphoric semantics anyhow, inner cringing exploited to its surface tension anxiety of breaking through but never really ... i do want connection, and i despise it all the same for that need, the blatant glare of denial, true independence is a child’s dream as well
ah, the reciprocals of a psychological existence ... sort of like the constant flow of psychosomatic worlds, making concrete what is believed, and that dangerous unconscious power of splurged application
sometimes i think psychology is a damn good excuse, and that is all
i can do anything unfortunately, if mind will allow ... which is why i do not trust it, i do not want the power because with it lies the collective responsibility of the entire world >> given the mathematical power of imagery, exponential power to infinity, loops to chaotic cyclical five dimensionality ... and since i have been shown to be quite destroyable in every way, i could not face the children of my dreams, crying at me that they never should have been born .... that it is possible if thought is existence that abortion is a gift for the unwanted ... that death could actually mean a kind of peace ... the possibility more persuasive than its application as always ...
i want to care more than anything, i want to give this to the wind and the birds of flight, i want them to take me and sing me songs and tell me stories and expand the branching dendrites and fatty brain leaves of my conscious subconscious to mathematics, science, philosophy, aesthetics, music theory, and language mystery boxes, i want to unfold those concentrations more than this constant worry of self decay before birth ... but i fear it is all fucked down to the last screaming babe of a deterministic entropy, heading toward burrows’ dream annexia, atrophied asshole men take over ... and that hesitation is compounded to the last sweatless, eyeless, tasteless mass of a human faulted being, that loved too much too soon, for her own good seasonings ... and now sits in wondered awed silence at how everything continues to move agonizing slow-fast
mother tells me days and throughout, how when i was a child i danced dayly, ran naked willfully, never wore shoes, and loved everything more than it deserved for future’s resultant adversity of the naive girl, caught in more than her development could retain water reflection of events ... but stubborn enough to insist everything must be done and experienced and known and loved now, now, now ...
love is a strange word, i think is too over-used for me to really evaluate with a personal origins or rooted honesty
would you believe my own tendencies towards abstract connection, if i told you i dreamed this sensation? of writing you a dream, of prompting your own needs to connect again and again like a bee kisses each beautiful flower for its nectar and flies off gayly to seed another ... i have so many decaying children of hope already you must realize ... i wonder still how much you’d want to know how far these webs of language could swell my stomach to the bursting of a motherhood of creations, but i fear sickly babes will prompt too soon my instinct to kill what need not be made to suffer, what innocence need not be made to deaden, its eyes to flatten in post thought post mortem ... how much i do believe, if i ever did truly believe, that children should not be made to suffer ....
i wonder if it is to cover all the unknown black holes beneath that suck this light breath straight from a warm body staring at the light shards across my kitchen counter tops
the stark determinism of the light perspective, this angle of the window, acute just so to give me a pattern of shard glowing lines of magic sunlight upon my kitchen counter top, my weaving brain can work a million different symbols and synchronocities into,
to this, and reveals everything i could never accept ...
i wonder if it is more than this, i pick the associations up like grass sheaths to my ephemera tower of creations within destructions ... i wonder if it is merely a spiraling i can feel so closely but never know for close proximity distance, how focus fusses when it comes too close ... this feeling of absence sticks with me through and through, because i feel this other, but i do not know it, nor have the capacity to know it beyond a faint feeling, nor give any proof, and faith is always a hazy ground plain, green grass metaphor ... you know all this already ... you see this more than i do i believe ... this other .... it is more than a material vacancy to fill, more than an awkward silence to overcome, more than missed arrows of word hesitations that must be gleaned over in someone’s goodwill and understanding that we are only, only gloriously, horribly homo sapien mutations
you know, the only thing i believe in is a paradox, and if that is god than let the tides of associations and assumptions and necessary error ratios flow to the eyes of my feet where they belong ... i can only know things underneath ...
so to follow with this logic of a paradoxical belief system, your mind cannot know this, it does not exist for us, we are forever removed from our own spirituality left guessing and supposing like ignorant storks caught flopping in the oil spilled coastline ...
why do you insist on inciting these things within me, within anyone? to give pandora a modern name, a physicality to exist and let free with all her destructive creation, you cannot have one without the other, just as you cannot have both ... and you can’t jump back once you’ve crossed the line ... you know it is why i could never avoid you, why you are such a damned distraction for me, always have been to my own ignorance... you will never know, and i don’t want you to ... you have the potential of being my destruction/creation, adam, and i don’t know if i will be able to handle it this time ... i must keep you in this encasement outside myself if i am to retain this exterior ... before i fold within myself and fly away again as i always do ... this line is too blurry and i don’t want to lose you to my own destruction again ...
i just want to run onto the morning horizon lines and dance my anachonistic dances to rhythms long fogotten, be stereotyped a lost hippie, born before or after my time, left in silent stupor, ignored for fear of guilt or misinterpretation or plain delayed realization, no context to continue where i left and i forgot all of it as soon as it left anyway ....
is freedom uninhibited units of anything? try to figure this shit into a psychological equation, it drives me nuts ... i just wish someone would believe in me without dependecy ... it seems impossible/improbable ...
anyway, i just want you to be free ... more than anything i could want for myself, i want you to be free ... underneath all this rambling, that is what i would want for everyone because i love them all so stupidly much it hurts to live here every day, thinking these things and feeling this pain of being unplugged from the collective ... and even after all i’ve done to run and experience everything and predict with the knowledge cocks of consequence, cause and effect, i still feel as if i am just a child wanting to play with adult toys ...
i must wind back up now ... i fear i have said too much within a desire for you to know ... whatever this madness is