October 6, 2011
I am still sustained by what I imagine, by that happy distillation of reality: illusion. Perhaps there is power, yet, in admission. But although I surrender to that world within my mind, I am torn between it and the space we all share and create together.
It is another year and another day of atonement on which I will not atone. I ask forgiveness from the imaginary daily and my words are met by empty air. I imagine cities in the air and better ones on the ground. I populate them expertly. It is easy not to be disappointed by that from which you can expect nothing--because nothing is precisely what it is.
If there is a light in my life, it is a lamp that burns inside me. It radiates too much passion to contain and so the air around me lives a half-life. In the time it takes to burn out, whole worlds are born and die, generations built and dismembered, smooth-cheeked babies are covered in stones and thorns. They have all grown up, shriveled, returned to the place from where they came.
I imagine the imagined, an idea made real, solidified. The highest heavens become the ground beneath our feet. The ground bears up seeds, swallows roots, sustains the living. It is foundation, reality, concrete.
It is not only rooftops and spires that bend under the weight of angels now. My shoulders are bent with the weight of them, my palms sweaty from the friction between ethereal wings and terrestrial skin.
Sure, I leave the imaginary for the dark. But I suffer. Too much of this shared world drains me. I debate the two: surrender again or suffer madness.
Madness is relative, so I'll suffer the real. One madness traded for another.
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