The writing itself is not without hope. It never is. That's how it works. That's how I work. Bringing myself back to the page, to the white ocean of what could be. Free falling. Unknown, unbroken, unhinged? I can't say. I only know that there is something here I don't want to lose. But not only that. Something I want to reawaken. From beneath the pink ground in the land of black. There in the container. Somewhere. It's all pent up. These emotions, dammed, but neglected so not growing, just sitting, tepid, unwrought. Such and such. I can't speak for them I feel, not now, not now that I don't know them. Not now that life has gone out of my eyes... has it? Has the eagle left me as it did Alexander? There isn't much to say, I can't say it, I can't be helped to say it.
There is something in knowing that the words don't belong to me anymore. But they don't belong to him either. They belong to... a place? space? spawn? Who cares? We just want to bring back the words. We want to bring back beauty. I think that's what it comes down to now that I think about it. We want to remember what it was like to create. To write, to draw, to sing. All of that - it was magical. But magic doesn't pay the rent. It doesn't buy a shot - the good or bad kind. No, no it does not. But it's what all of that is for. It's the top of the pyramid.
So what can we say in regards to our current state? Well, there was a time when we didn't have to worry about maintaining the bottom of that pyramid - it was done for us. We were children, we simply had to express what was within, that was all - to shine, to be shown, to show and be shone. That's called childhood. That stopped, obviously. Perhaps because we didn't have what we wanted - we changed what we wanted. No one forced us to. No one forced us too. That was all us. We held trial, council, parliament. And some fuckface got up and started delivering this new plan. The New Deal. Our internal contract laid out nosus decipio. And we fucking bought it, we bit it, hook line and sphincter. Dragged down, not up, to purgatory.
Our bodily wisdom knew and screamed. It screamed over and over for months in its all black cell. Like a ragged mother beggar forced to trade dignity for desperation hoping to save her son from slaughter. But there was no coin for the boatman. No angel in offering a lamb. Abraham had his day. When that small boy with crooked knees, masses of glasses and whistling teeth came to the shore of Acheron, Charon lifted him up with one boney arm and threw him into the water.
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Unconsciously he was thankful the water didn't burn his eyes, if that's what it was. He ran in liquid and didn't feel the bottom but the shore wasn't so far away. The souls behind still lined the coast back to the black forest. That line was finite but didn't end here. The water knew little rhythm other than the useless beating of the boatman's oar and hardly noticed the thrashings of this little filipino boy. He kicked his legs and flailed his arms trying to keep his head above the surface but only seemed to sink slowly into the infidelious fluid. It swallowed him and his silent scream. And he lies there now, at the bottom of the river, mouth agape while souls of fidelity are ferried above him.
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That's who we're looking for. Hope against horror. Us wizened indrunkarded and baffled boys standing stupid on the shore at the waters of woe. Us who condemned him for the whiteness of his spirit. Put him there whose thought to rot. We've heard the cries of his mother in furious song and whispers of ash. She haunts us now. Her ethereal fingers work to splay the thread of sanity and plant seeds of cessation. Those are diamonds spelled like salt. So here we go wading into the waveless, neck deep blind in the dark feeling for feeling.
