(swish, flick and levitate)
Dreams weave in and out of foggy mornings, foggy December mornings. There are goosebumps on my skin. The moist breath escaping my lips taunt me with their shapelessness, as they dissipate into the cold air.. free.
I hope that serendipic feelings never cease to exist and stelliferous nights be our guiding lights.
(‘help’ and/or some such)
They come to you in fits and stops.
It rushes through you, much like oxygen, leaving and entering the bloodstream, re-leaving and re-entering, so on and so forth.
You draw your head up to the full length of your shoulders, embracing the infinite possibilities, the bold dreams, the Utopia and the yearnings fourfold – with a single defining point of hope that you will never stop to chase everything and everyone that brings you that delicious rush of blood to your head as well as that tranquil sense of existence to your soul.
You cower before the impregnable fortress that withholds all the answers to the questions that your mind ceaselessly entreats you with. Hell, you are afraid to even start looking for them! An abominable rut of self-deprecation seizes you by the ends of your hair and drags you to the agonizing bottomless pit of pragmatism and cynicism.
You make your choices, both good and bad; you do things that you never thought you would, you make plans and screw them, and make some more, and screw them even more; you write your own story, surround yourself with only that which makes you grow.. the extraordinary. The excesses are shed.
You say you are more than one thing. Are you anything at all? Who are you when you’re not playing the roles that you’ve unquestioningly made your own thus far? Do you really care about anything? Do you really care about anyone? Do you really think that quality is something worth treasuring?
The heart fervently beats at a leisurely pace.
A sharp intake of breath,
A hesitance in my step,
The mind swirls;
Multiplying thoughts do so parade,
A vortex of a frightening scale.
A coldness spreads across my fingers
With such stiffness and dread.
A memory rekindles a spot of warmth
Ankles, fingers and milliseconds prolonged.
A pit in my stomach, a hole in my heart,
A lump in my throat: Fold.
A restlessness of the soul:
In an elusive stillness whereupon I can hear your heartbeat
A stillness of the mind ever-overwhelmed by a terrible disquiet.
At the start of something or its end, perhaps neither;
The destinations matter – but less, the winding road – more,
The movements on our shoulders – more.
To the stark raving madness, the blithe disregard for every excess,
The pursuit of something bigger than ourselves:
You and me. You or me.
The lust for the little things; a smattering of purpose
Or a modicum of meaning – the big thing.
An unconditional co-existence: Utopian and real.
The words that arrive in fits and stops.
A blank verse here, a languid whisper there.
The emptiness longs to be removed.
The soul is restless. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. The doubt ebbs and flows; the confidence wavers and bows but continues to deal blow for blow, perhaps weaker than before. There will be light. There IS light. Believe you must.
The heaviness in the body weighs me down, or is it in the mind? The proliferation of the helpless and the ignorant encroach upon my consciousness. I write. I sleep. I read. I eat. I walk. I repeat. The unforgiving minute races on. Have sixty seconds worth of distance been run? I nurture a pointless ego; give it the name of independence, fierce and passionate. I feel the nuts and the bolts inside of me tighten and loosen, simultaneously so. I re-evaluate. I use thought to not participate. But there’s much to be seen, to be done, to be said and to be chased and pursued – with a hitherto unknown, unpredictable wildness in the manner your heart beats and your lungs gasp for breath. Ah, the thrill of it, the maddening knowledge that you are capable and thus you could. Will you, now?