The confession of Peter(, Paul & Mary)

[Sepia]

This is the easy way out of the dream, here is the escape. The thought is there, as always, clear in the burning sky, a blue noise lost in a moment when we weren't looking up- a different time for both you and me. The dream is not something to control, it consists of everything, it is completely beyond control. Which is why we can't understand it or give a reason for its existence but it is there and those with control seethe while those without revel for even if they lose they know control will not take everything, there will be limits to control as long as our species live, are we here as a measure against control?

Here we are on this glorious morning, bereaved of control, thoughts pathing by into the nothing beyond the whitest shores where unicorns and pegasi play in the meadows of old lady life, that, the heaven they sent for her, something we would never see nor feel in our lives again. Demented souls we were, dwelling in an apocalypse, merchants of salt at the gates of poison. We sell it steep, make the old ways still profitable, adding a bit of mystery to something so mundane, so normal

There is a cloud on our hearts, a dying kind, a dry dying kind, like a fact about a supernova, only visible to us through magnified images with weird colours and we grasp the pages in the papers with such heaviness, the burden of knowledge felt upon our shoulders like the wish of a dying man, wanting affection for the last time, before the fog rose. We sat in the gardens, you and I, wishing for a time when some things had changed but the light is growing dull and our eyes are not like they used to, we are blind men now but at least there is rest in our bodies.

--

"Everything is collapsing, dear
All moral sense has gone
It's just history repeating itself
And babe, you turn me on" - Nick Cave


Forgive me father, this is my first confession. This is the tone it will be in, this monologue to be written on old drying ink, on a relic from when writing was sexy and fulfilled something more than our bookshelves. We were so many and I am only one. I wish I could have talked with you, heard the comforting age from beyond your lips, the relaxation and your stoic belief that god is really there. How many times I've seen up on the stars and wondered if you were there and what I wanted most was to see it, to see the true light reach down from above, I wanted to believe and I think I wanted it to bad, I doubted what to believe because there were so many beliefs and I borrowed from them all, giving devotion to none. I think it was in one of these fragments my I was born, my first thought about a thought came early, I think I was seventeen, perhaps it's really late, I've always been a late bloomer, things have always taken time and I've credited myself that it's because I'm thorough and I am, but I'm also slow.

I ask for forgiveness for something I've never done. That's the man I am or used to be when everything was. I didn't know who I was then and I'm slipping further away now into ignorance and disknowledge because somewhere along the way I stopped caring. I knew I shouldn't, I read enough of the right books to initiate a struggle with myself and to do good deeds even though my heart was far from it and the more I did it, I felt guilty and it felt like I contaminated everything with my affliction, turning them into husks of what concepts and ideas or humans they were, diminished them. I still don't really care what they say what they mean what happens in the world and I don't care about the news or what's happening and yeah I think that watching an episode of a shitty sitcom is completely both repulsive and acceptable at the same time and I don't really care who you are because you're shallow and I like to think of it as you're not interested in life and then I remember that's me

not you. I am a coming of age movie or novel waiting to happen. I'd make a dreadful comic, fuck, the film would be lousy and the book would still read like a hungarian suicide note. God, it would be boring. I never regret anything because I never did anything, everything disappeared back there, got vanished by the hands of a foul magician and his hands make me think about hands I saw, some beautiful, some strange and some so lithe, so tender before the flesh hardened. I feel like Horselover Fat except I could have used something but the distance for there are so many stories, so many trains of thought that want out and some of the trains have run for a long time and they grow darker and darker with every lap, every year falling into something new, a new shame or sensation of guilt, a new sense of pride, love and joy but I carry only the angle needed for the lake of darkness.

I wish I could see the world like that, like a sentence black on white, devoid of that little something more, just what is there, open to interpretation but that will always be that and some people's logic is way too much to grasp for other people but the other people have time and what happens when a collection of minds spend more time thinking about the book, the product than the author himself did, is something lost here or diminished or did he just enter a profitable phase, did he sell out and become mainstream when the blind masses harped more on his words than himself? Isn't this new world order a democracy, isn't this new world order a place where the majority is right?

I yearn for the abstract and I know it will hit me one of these days, it will find me on this very road, somewhere in the landscape where it makes sense I will meet something, the dead arab, the obese greek or something of the formless from dreams or premonitions, future memories. Every day the wind blows harder and every day it sounds more like a guttural squawk from a dodo rather than something that isn't a myth or dead, extinct. I am not my brother's keeper, I do not know how this will end, I was never good with confrontation and I was never good at figuring out when I was being conned and I had seen enough westerns to know this was something, a setup.

When I needed someone to talk to, none were around, no stranger I could vent in front of and then move on, no bartenders cabdrivers or other ordinary people. I could probably broadcast it to space from somewhere but then I wouldn't have known that someone was listening, that the message was received, whoever it concerned or interested. I do not know. I can not speak with the two others, the mistrust between us all is ice cold, polite, distanced, feeling alien and alienated.
I don't know where I'm going but it feels like falling into the stars and that is what I'm doing, this, my dear reader is a letter I will leave in the big bible here in the church and I'll lock it in the safe and when you read this I will be redeemed and my burdens will fall to you for I can't carry them much longer. The arab and the greek appear more often in my dreams and it feels like they are tutoring me, they show me sights they have seen and I see the arab ripped apart in the town square, broad daylight and I sense the thing that did it, I can feel it as a part of me, like it is a part of me.