It’s not so much what’s gone that’s so disturbing; it’s what’s left. Security should be the void. It’s the chaos, the realm of possibilities’, the quantum physics, the mechanical workings of my own machine. The observer, the writer, the self-appointed boss does what she can within the scope of her own reality, so it’s really that reality that should be held beneath the brightest light and scrutinized with the most indifference.
It is just there, but I’m the only one who ever notices it. That gaping hole left by them being gone is just the sinew and bones, like a big empty ship that bobs to the surface after a storm came that has drowned all the hands and taken the captain to the bottom of sea: Tattered sails and broken beams, drifting helplessly (or by design) to another port; waiting for another crew. My own life caught in the swells of an unmoved ocean, a trade wind away from a destiny. It was an awful big void. It was begging to be filled with things. It was soliciting response from a base and primitive left over mechanism in the rear cortex. It insisted that even to part with things that I love is far more expedient to happiness than parting with things that slow me down. No one can know what it means to capsize in the midst of a terrible storm from an account. No. One has to experience it for themselves. Surviving the shipwreck of one’s own life because of the decisions that he or she has made can be exhilarating. You can’t lose it all at once. It takes time. It has to be conscious. You have to be sick.
I mean… One can’t get better until one has been ill.
Nothing means nothing.
And running away is no way to live. I’ve had to face a lot of demons this week: Doing the ghost dance, nail biting bit, throwing invisible punches and running circles in my dreams: Endless pontification, weighing of options, and finding the weight to be a lazy man’s load. Discovered that ground zero is a pointless place to be. Maybe it needs to be roped off for everyone’s good. Is there really anything worth saving back there? It’s confusing anyway, the way it defiantly opposes organization.
Yes it’s obvious, I wear my hostility and memories on the outside of an empty vessel that creaks and moans but on the outside I’ve airbrushed a nice picture at times
This machine asks too many questions.