bezoar

[Sepia]

"The fog is rising"
- Emily Dickinson, last words

                    "Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow"
- TS Eliot, Hollow Men



The sickness, the disease. The cloud of imminent doom hanging over us, a murder of crows departing as we glide down the streets, omens follow us, symbols none know what means but it feels like a different age now, this is our age, this is what happens to us, it's happening now, coming like winter always does but in the spring is where we feel weaker as the sunlord watches us with his fiery gaze and it feels holy as the light casts long shadows and it feels like there is a lesson to be learned but here, we feel the knot inside ourselves, the darkness all men and women carry in their souls. There are many theories about the soul, whether it is inside or outside the body, contained within our dna or a useless gland, I carry my soul in my stomach and as my body decays over the years, my soul grows, the hoarder of my heart possessing all that will not disappear, creating a black ball

There is a recurring dream where I'm in the bathroom, some bathroom, it is tiled I feel the cracks on my knees and I am bending forward, calm and collected but I know this scene, I've always known this scene and I vomit, one big burst, emptying me, clearing my head and it is in that silver river I pick through cockroaches, hair, half-digested things, there is a bigger ball of hair, a bezoar, it is heavier than it looks like. I part the strands and inside is an eight pointed star, shimmering, it is solid to the touch but for the eyes it looks like mercury, gliding like it but not like an optical illusion more like love or hate

I talk to you but you do not reply, silence is permeating this place, it has grown, on me and away from me, like a cancer in the imagination, an old idea that once rooted itself but was not believed in, never removed, a part of me, a part of us, we are our own cancer. We are the darkness we bravely face when there are no other options, when Bøygen can no longer tell us to go a different route, it is when we have to die we will realize that, almost as if gods built us for the extra added dramatic effect, the violence that lies in us all, all the beasts of the world- we are animals, something that should never be forgotten but it is and we create superheroes to remind us of this but we don't understand, we don't want to understand that this is our life, our moment and seize it, we wish to be curbed and culled

We wish to see our brightest hope burn out, we wish to see the world turn its back on us, we wish to be abandoned to die but through there we will break the fourth wall and we will understand and weep as the fog keeps rising, as death marches to us to claim us and in our last moment we will see what connects it, feel the shape and contour of our lives and we will not know what we see, it'll feel like a dream and we'll treat it like a dream and not a revelation. How every dream is something being revealed, the veil that shutters deaths dream kingdom is a veil we wear as much as we wear our muscles, tissue, blood and bone. We are islands, occasionally opening trade routes or building bridges but most of our wars stem from our different points of view regarding ascension, illumination, death

The rainbows are not bridges, they are the echo of a distant future and a past long forgotten, a rememberance that none recall. Lips that would kiss and whisper tender words in a room you no longer know where exists, promises broken like bottles of glass, creaking underneath our feet in this world, this dry cellar, feeling haunted as each step releases the dust lying beneath our feet, swirling symbols, locked away from misunderstanding eyes- staring at us, silently humming to us, a bitten apple once signified our release or descent, our damnation

We grow older as the days grow bleaker, we cough dust and ashes, the world smells like an ashtray and we can't sleep for it's too hot, too humid. Tension building in the air as it grows darker, a banquet for these shadows, these answers still so hollow, containing nothing.
There he is, the burning prince, the brightest of the stars burning in the terrible morning, our morning, when the sun bathes us in this golden radiance and the air is filled with spring, all is crisp and clear- we see it clearly now, we see the importance of our situation, we feel childhood ending and adulthood beginning, reminded of Lovecrafts words as we take our first tentative steps towards an unknown infinite and every morning we all hear the alarm as we press snooze again

With great power comes great responsibility, with power comes responsibility but we see only the power of the illusion as men we feel greater than us climb taller peaks than we would ever and it is those that wield responsibility, it is only those that take it for their actions, this is how it is and it is for we are encumbered with fear, paralyzed as we come to the realization, as we gaze upon the terrible beauty of life with newer eyes