Searching

There are moments, I think, when a fleeting jolt of emotion afflicts a person's mind. For me, I treasure the moment. I notice it in people's eyes when they stare at me unblinkingly, almost fascinated by the babble that makes its way past my lips. They fall in love for a moment--that's the emotion; that's the incredulous stare.

But emotion is ephemeral, as I said above. And ephemerality is my business in prose--I cannot stop creating; but each new drop of ink and its codification of inspiration leave the last behind. With it, I build upon my self and abandon at once. As for the Others' fleeting feeling--I build upon and leave myself behind. I donate a piece of myself to them and their innocent, inadvertent love.

For the moment, I love them back. And moments in Time are eternal, so our love is, too. Now, this is simple prose, but simplification proves often most benefactory to man and his unlimited affinity for complication. To erase that complication--and I dare to--I ask what would it do to our humanity? Would we go mad with beauty? Mad with strain? Overwhelmed by the vastness of the ungraspable sky and our seeming (or possible) (or probable) insignificance in relation?

The beauty is harmony--how it cannot be interrupted, how it cannot be tainted or overrun by our din. The din is but a note in this universal song that reigns almost unnoticed over us. We must step back while continuing to sing. Our music in explosives can be changed, for a symphony has many movements and the movements change--the song can change, while the band plays on. Nothing must be forever permanent, save that of the Voices singing through the starlit vacuum and the darkness in between.

In conclusion: I would risk simplicity, the sacrifice of complication--for the Madness of the bellatristic and unimaginable. I would take the love wiht me and leave myself behind as I grow and you grow and we grow--into the sweeping attraction between moon nad tide, into the life-giving and life-taking glow of solar wind and shine.

In the Rain

No one knows how with me.
Because I'm too whatever the hell it is.
Well, I admit it, Everyone! I'm a freak.

I look for foundation and what do I get but degradation? What do I get but dehumanization? I can't live without it, don't you people get it? No. How could you? How could you? You're human! You're human! Do you understand your gifts? How can you not understand your gifts?

Try this Life: the silent voices scream incessantly insdie you, beyond your ears, beyond your eyes and the vibration never ceases.

It drives you mad until the Madness breaks you and you break it back but you lean on each other beacuse you're selfish and you want to be remembered for something you were only the victim and the instrument of.

Do you know how the world looks in black and white? I want it to be color again but the veil is back in front of my eyes and I try to wipe it away but the veil is there and the words aren't clear so I can't let them out. I want it to turn color again but the ink won't subside. It's physical. Not in the mind. Physical colorblindness. Try it for a second. It'll scare you shitless and for a moment there you'd rather be blind.

My mind has been arrested by itself and the Madness. Again, again, it's been arrested and there's no liberty to be gained this time. No liberty. And the liberty of the past was only illusion.

Watch it destroy me like it used to. Watch it destroy me and watch me pretend it's all all right. I'm a great pretender. I'm a master pretender, creating for you an illusion of myself that can never be while I look back at you and the image is black and white. No image but the swift and beautiful motion of letters into words into sentences into paragraphs into pages into prophecies of how the world might be.

That's my job: take you on a sojourn, give you a respite. But I never get to partake. So now you measure the worth of being an artist. Whether to cry for not being one or for one.

You'd best cry for them beacuse they can only cry through rain and their own tear ducts are dry. But no one cries for me and the rain doesn't really care.

At least you can get back to yourself. With me, there's nothing to get back to because I'm nothing but a medium for hell to pass through earth.

The Resistors

Simplicity:
Poetry's complexity
entwined with ingenuity
as ink rolls fluidly
tempting the tongue idiomatically
until the mind churns rebelliously
to the world's pulsing vividity

Call out for retaliation!
the heart's degredation
murmurs incessantly for
a Muse's minstrel's minute striations
carving temptations
in the wandering hearts of tutelary saints

I go further in mind
--farther in body
Replaying the reconstruction of dreams
that you molded out of steam
I'll replay for you, too
Construct my own schemes
of recurring limitations

I broke them bare
while you seduced me into your
pristine lair.
I caught you: embrace our mutual impudence
over the palpitating distance --

And choose:
Simplicity for triviality--
against overt electricity between--
Simplicity to breathe in
Simplicity for the beginning
and complexity for the casting away.

Realization

I finally realized tonight, deep down, what I've thought I knew all along: that truly, friends sustain me, revitalize me, fuel me, give me reason. And even though I dream, there is no more necessity.

They sing in silence over virtual words and greet me unfailingly on the other side of the night. I keep them with me, especially the ones who aren't afraid of one ounce of what I am. The ones who write the way they speak and take it as it comes and never want me to change the fact that I speak the way I write.

That's a rarity, apparently. Some people love it about me. Most people fear it and run away and never look back. Many crawl into bed and cry for the fact that their minds work in a different pattern. I'll trade you, if you'd like. If you want the Madness, I'll give you that and everything that comes along with it: the loneliness, the walls, the wind, the music, the suffocating ink. What will you give me in return? I ask for nothing except time and quiet. And a fulfillment of my greatest wish: "Please don't leave. Don't leave."

So don't leave. And then I'll be happy.

I'll take you to the tainted place
where nighttime turns to ashes
There you'll see the hidden face
that hides behind your lashes

Suppose I really can forgive the person I hate the most. Suppose it's happening now. Suppose it's happened. It's happening, as you read, as we speak. But it's not the same, nonetheless. Whatever makes him happy, I guess, because it's same the other way around.

I think it's amazing how just one syllable of a voice can dispell all fear, all haste, worry. I think it's amazing.

Just so you know, the words are all coming back again. The angels, the ink, the veil between myself and the world. This time I'll welcome it and not be afraid because now I can stand on my own, without anyone else, without fearing what may be if I am alone again. That's what coming to terms is.

Uriel, take my heart, I say. Take it and make it more human, but not enough so that I am human altogether. When all is said and done, I wish only to be an artist: what I was born to be. What I will remain. What I will become. What I am. I wish only to be an artist.