3:00am stream of consciousness
she sits in the comfortable space of found things--lost in the void of nothing and everything exploding within the chest without looking but burning comfortably all the same
we carry on until the ink staining the fingertips dries
the ink
the blood of a thousand stories and pens and oh this next one shall be imprinted on
my identity forever in the form of midnight scratched on paper
everyone is a jane eyre and a holden caulfield in the same breakable body that never dies--always sleeping and stretching and growing in the unconstructed hum of contented nothing
"are you bored yet?" they ask. or maybe it was just the old melody ceaselessy echoing in the dark warm space where we all wish we could breathe
But consciousness never truly breathes.
and yet here I respire in sweet cotton driftwood without my stained glasses where the light flickers and we let it because We Are Not In Control. I haven't felt safe since birth but we ought acknowledge the vulnerability and find solace in the canyon with our shadows
my pen cries for ink again and again but never predatory
collects my thoughts and musings but never parasitic
only the page and hand remember careless inkblots long forgotten by the clever memory, which protects itself so playfully in its hollow space.
why so hollow?
oh how i wish there was an answer
No caption contests necessary
if only there were something to travel at the speed of thoughts and make us all feel comfortable again! we hate to be at the mercy of the world but does it ever grow old? i wish to hear my own breath more and tangle less musings of the mind
and yet i am nothing without my musings and my grip
did we stay up and watch the sunset?
i wallow
i wallow
we all need deeper breath if we are ever to find our solace--as of now, where do all the mosquitoes go? are they like New York Ducklings in eyesight of the melancholic taxi cab, only present for sorrowful allegory?
i refuse to be a duckling, even if i already have been; we may lie, but
we all remain Phoebe just the same.
the scornful Tabula Rasa looks down on the best of us
locke is but a fantastical algorithm for thoughtfulness in an era of static beeping
beeping
beating
so very different
i feel warmer now yet my palms are darker; why do we confide in warm masses of flesh if ink stays cold at room temperature?
like shots of poisonous silver mercury on the 21st birthday of the starving artist who lets her page split with tadpoles of stories lost to cloudy memory
and should the teabags run out we will always have those not so human who embody the antithesis of our struggle and shatter us down to our core through melting
can you melt starlight?
if so, i wish to stay in this space forever
unbottled
this space of pretty words and shared breaths and
lonesome watched backs; introspective paranoia that
threatens but never overtakes
which i find POLITE...
chills crawl along the skin as my warm space wanes playfully--yet ignores its world of harsh geometry; never enemies, we evade the pervasive conflict of looming ringtones
creaking outlet or creaking page?
help me find the lesser devil..
cursive is not quite as easy as it seems--thoughts are not simple scratchngs, though they may seem compatible through unreadable lines
i pledge not to read back
there is no fixing the musings of night hour
warmth and fear has grown too much despite the forever appeal of perpetual empty-ness
thank you for opening my chest yet again
good night;