Some times, when the morning coffee hasn't yet seeped into the pores of my brain and the nicotine is still a shower away I look at myself in the mirror, imagining myself as a woman. Thinking about what choices I would have done earlier, how my life would have turned out and smelled, how the colours would look and how it would feel to give birth.
They try to tell us the truth through mangled lips, bubbles of blood and broken teeth give the words a certain ring of truth but we've heard it before, we're looking for a new truth whilst discarding the old truths, we're stepping on and moving through and as we step into the temple we see the veil already half-torn and there is shouting in the streets outside.
The truth is a fickle thing for the truth is like a story, like the small important parts of a story that builds the momentum and if the storyteller is good, these are the invisible parts, they pass through the night silently without us disturbing them with their cheshire grins. The truth is what isn't there, the truth is what is lacking, the things that have passed away and that we spend our entire lives looking for
Hoping for
Dreaming for
Fearing
The fear is always growing and as it's true as the adults say that you'll grow out of it, you'll grow into more, forgetting your mistakes time and time over, reliving, revisiting, rebecoming and there is a sensation of ascent, light wings flapping mildly in a tropical night and closer to the polar circle do we fly and the jazz is clear to us as it is written in the sky and as we fly, time does that thing it does sometimes and we see all the dead lovers below us, we see all what they have seen, gazing upon the world with hofmann improved vision and seeing the lie,
loving it.
The world will end when I die of heart failure in a diner in minnesota, the world will end when I inject myself with heroin the third time and most likely it will happen quite silently and I will smile to myself when it happens because we may have started in a bang but we will not end in one. I find comfort in my belief that everything that happens carries fruit, ripe or rotten doesn't matter but there is a measure of control regarding coincidence.
The music is peaking but the e isn't, I'm here between sweaty hippies, kids and white people with dreads and I need chemicals to enjoy this, I need something that isn't me to ride for the while, to take me through to something, an adventure into the belly of reality itself where the skies darken by the second and by the time you remember that sentence you should have used on that delicious woman back when you were too young for her you're already soon dead and you keep forgetting to keep focused, you loose yourself in the now and the drums are scattered and varied, making no sense but there is a sensation of the possibility of an harmony in the chaos they give you to see, slicing it up so it looks like a venn diagram and in truth it is. The room turns into love.
There is a child sitting in a graveyard by the headstone of her grandfather whom she loved dearly. She is smoking a joint but he had nothing to do with it. If he knew he might have shock his head lightly and said my dear child what are we to do to you before taking a puff. It doesn't really matter who her grandfather was or where he is, all that matters is that incorporated into the machine of the child lies every possibility, and that is the human curse.
Shit yeah
emotionally vivid.
I second both above remarks.
I love this Obituaries series