A Static Blanket
just knowing i’m amongst your things, clothes, your room… seeing the week’s alcohol consumption and cigarette butt collection strewn about, presented all through out the room.. with maybe even a crumpled up piece of notebook paper, old mugs full of cold, dry and stale coffee, your pictures… All of this, just seeing this, is like some kind of mawkish religious experience. who are you to let this type of thing “initiate”? vexing my true form, i have disdain. For what you’re capable of doing to me. To yourself.
Breaking ties with the earthly, this is what it’s about. your physical self just shouldn’t be acknowledged as often as it is.
Although, I’ve always enjoyed the way the light plays over and through your hairs, painting them gold. this is also what it’s about. What is it all about you ask? the smallest speck of unwanted ash, dirt. A glint, a glimmer. Wandering for it. Wondering about it. Grasping for it in the dark.
Sometimes i just find myself wondering how it’s done. how do you muster up this feeling of epic? what distant land will i have to travel to? will our migrations prove to be everything we’ve ever wanted it to be?
i hate the moments when you realize we’re all way past un-conditioning.
Wandering souls, i guess they aren’t really lost. When it’s all over, when this strange, decaying, growing, Renaissance of a cage we have is marking a new cycle, rebirth of energy itself. The sky will fill with a static blanket.
The stars will sigh at you.
Gravity will be mild, allowing you to playing catch with boulders. At the very peak of inward metaphysics …
Your cortical folds will rest within a hand, languidly placed, resting. From a chair, gently entombed.
