Saturday, March 8, 2008

Filling the Space

All the talking in the world does nothing to disguise this state
I talk you listen
You don’t hear
My sounds only spark other thoughts within you
You think
You listen to yourself
You hear what you want
You only understand what you already know.
There is no real dialogue
No real exchange
We both don’t care
We are simply together
Filling the space
The space of nothingness
We try to mask the uncomfortable feeling within
In the darkness of early day
you try to buy your way into security
Into the feeling of meaning
We fear the nothingness
Slashing boxes, piling the merchandise on shelves,
Useless things destined for the trash
Sooner that you think
Disposable items, like lost dreams of happiness
Why does it not come within these things?
These plastic bags and boxes.
Artifice and cloth. How is it we’ve come together? This strange lot of dwellers that move in the dark hours between sleep and sun. pointless questions posed and answered. Is there caring? Do I actually care about you? I notice the whistling.
The strange habits of myself. My tendency to open my big mouth, to share information unneeded and unwanted.
This blast of insight moves me to an undiscussed dimension. Where only my beautiful master can make sense of it for me. My guide in this labyrinth. My tears swell to the greatness of storms. Pureness wraps me with strong arms, soft and white. Hold me with your hand on my head, like the tiny child I am.
Like the great void that looks out of these eyes. How does this nothingness move? How does it talk?
Writing on these keys, perceiving these sounds. This strangeness stirs me. And I cry. I could be sad, if I chose this. I could be smiling, if I chose this. I could remain with this headache, this ball of energy trapped behind my ears, atoms vibrating against each other like schoolyard children. They push against each other, hard and fast, like boiling water on our white stove top. Tsss, tssss, the bubbling water boils over, tsss, steaming the air, moisturizing my organs.
I feel you from the inside, massaging me with the care of a dear friend. Tears roll, they keep coming, this energy providing me with an amount of strangeness. Sad if I choose, strange if I choose. Productive if I choose.
It’s all up to me. This supposed individual, this lie of an individual. My rights, my desires, my feelings, all of these simple perceptions, embedded into these cells, they have moved beyond any control I possess. They work for their own concern, devising my downfall with glee. They wait for the sweetest moments, when I am drifting to sleep.

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