The breeze is neither hot or cold, and it condemns my body as I move through it. There is nothing on my mind but whichever comes easier first, a new place or sentence. I have a great pain in my stomach from the war, and nothing in my heart but hunger. This is what I imagine writing to be, a profound exhumation of pain.
The days are getting shorter but I still find them to take up too much time, too much time wasted on daylight. Aren’t we all better at night? Don’t our problems tucker out, our pretenses, our jesters and princesses and men sitting in the booth at the gate, nearly asleep but not allowed? Haven’t we found there to be enough in the sigh, enough at least to pass the time? I have, no? No.
I have wished for an alternate to stagnation for a while now, and curiosity seems to have presented itself as such. The only problem is energy. I have none. I have very little. I have none. I cannot decide whether there is enough pull inside to keep the pages on my fingertips. I cannot decide whether to scroll or click, to select or deselect. I am intensely motivated by the dreams of my father, which I have now come to know as nightmares. Who knew? He sure didn't. We both do now.
Still, like a stone Like a hill, like home Still, what I find Is you are always on my mind
Finally I am curious. I have changed! But will it change what I think about when I'm walking from place to place? Who I'm thinking about? No. Yes. Gah!
I’ll write about the field of flowers now. Of course, it never worked. It only did the trick. Is that the sane thing? Is a non-nightmare the same thing as a dream? Have I ever had a really good dream? Yes, of course I have. But they didn’t look like a field of yellow flowers, with hills and valleys, all flowers though, no rocks or trees or clouds, just yellow flowers and sunlight and maybe rabbits, no hawks, no, no, they don't look like that. They look like corners, looking back, turning, turning back, eye contact, pulled and ultimately death. All my dreams feel like a pitiful negotiation with Death ever since
I dreamed I died in 10th grade (?). It was profoundly beautiful. I was in the passenger seat of a car going 90 miles an hour down Montana ave. That's a fancy street I live next to that has lots of pedestrians and a whole foods and many beauty salons and multiple apothecaries. My friend's mom who has a known phobia of driving was behind the wheel. She swerved into the sprawling lawn of the street's elementary school, and I was thrown from the car onto the grass. As I died, I felt the Tension pulled down into the earth from me, the Tension was gone when I was. It was very chill. It did not hurt. I liked it. I no longer fear death, I woke up telling myself. I no longer fear death, I went about telling others. I no longer fear death. Only being gone. Only disappointing the grass with an inadequate bounty. Only everything but.
Was I so uncurious as a child? So unmotivated? Now that I am not a failure, I cannot remember what it was like to be one. Well, he never let me do that, be that, so of course I cannot remember. I'm talking about the stoic, not the father. I told myself about the field of flowers over and over until I fell asleep, but oh how Pathetic, to think of the same thing every night. I don't even remember if it worked! I mean, it did, I think, because I kept reusing it.
Tense, tense, tense. Even taken one step at a time breathwise, I am still tense. Through endless revision to say what I mean, for sweetness alone who flew out through the window. When I pee sometimes, I have a beautiful view in an unspecial room, a nasty place with a grateful window. Sweetness alone. Self-love? Flew out? Like a bird? An exile? I do it for sweetness, Jeff knows that much. But to chase, or to become the bird? Chaitan, Always Both.
Adieu
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