Sunday
I don’t know where I’m going to go with this. That’s kind of normal for me, but I’ve gotten out of the habit, and I’ve fallen out of the practice, and now I have to take a running start at the game I have decided to play, and just fucking do it and see how it turns out.
Word upon word.
No expectations.
It’s supposed to be rather high-minded to live and breathe without expectations...except for your next breath, I suppose, or that your next step will land on something solid instead of plummeting into some well-disguised pocket dimension that some mischievous, or even malignant being tossed into your path today for some reason, a space where all your tiny bits of matter, and mattering, slip into the voids between. Potentiality as likely as god. “Why today, of all days?” You might ask yourself, were that to happen. “I wasn’t expecting that portal to an empty realm. I can’t even breathe in there. Who knew?”
I’m not sure if randomly placed pockets of dimensional space are devoid of oxygen, but if they are scattered about for tricks and traps, that’s what I would expect. It’s not like a trap is going to send you to a world with a sky that’s just the right colour. You know that colour? It’s sky colour, but just a bit better. If the forest and the sky had a baby in the ocean, and they made the very best colour for a new sky, that’s the colour that the sky ISN’T in the hypothetical trap world that no one expects. In the hypothetical trap world that no one expects, the sun does not rise like a gleaming smile to light the blushing clouds and illuminate the tumbling falls that exist on the edge of vision in spirals of gold.
No, a place like that is a special place, to even describe it is a gift, and to have been there is almost beyond measure. But that measure is mine.
One foot in front of the other, dear one. Word upon word to describe your way, lost one.
I don’t think I’ve ever been lost, I just misplace my attention sometimes, like when you’ve been driving home for an hour, and you realize that you’re there and you didn’t think about driving the entire way, but you did, and now, somehow, you’re home, so that’s good, even if it’s not how you remember, and neither are you, and it’s been so long that even the word is difficult to say, much less understand, and you’re not sure what you might have missed, all along the way.
But it seems right, somehow.
If I don’t write or process often enough, I get a head so packed full of brilliance that it gets dark. It’s like a black hole, so dense that not even light can escape. So it’s full of it, light, but you’d never know without the danger of getting sucked into it and broken into molecules and stretched until even time, even light, and sleep, and the sound of a familiar voice, are sensed only racing away from your reaching hand, your eager stream, accelerating into the dark, disintegrating into matter and thought. Small parts adrift, drawn in, to be built anew on the other side.....maybe. Hopefully.
No one knows what’s on the other side of the glass, the mountain, the next page, the mirror, but especially not black holes.
What’s on the other side of the windows to the souls?
