open larynx night

 

The episodes are growing, my solitude is getting incurable. More and more days dawn when I don't want to be on the scene. Any scene. To keep human contact to a bare minimum. Day after day it multiplies, the social spackle, more global villages lined with duct tape, the masks, the lies, the fear, the growing growing numbness, like a giant cloud over the world. Maybe just over myself, what difference does it make? I am my world.

I hate the grinding bones, the necessity of cleaning up into something frighteningly presentable and adjusted, all the corners neatly tucked in, all the edges carefully filed away, blunt bleeding stumps of who I really am.

I hate all those price tags so loudly displayed, because of course, unless there is a price, how can we know the value of what we see? Until we are denied, how do we guess what the hell we want?

This is the digital age, and I need to get real, isn't it ironic? The world is fourteen to eighteen inches wide and tall, the logo on the jeans on the ass of some random male, attractive very, adjusted to fit my screen, sent by someone he doesn't know, sent by someone I don't know, THAT is what I feel. Sums up my day, mild lust for a well pixelated image, isn't that more than slightly pathetic?

Oh yes yes we are supposed to define reality by what happens to us and not the other way around, but hell, don't these bones and bodies rebel? marching in perfect coordination and responding as expected, to the correct stimulus. ugh. How are we not disgusted or even aware of our growing invisibility, how dim we aspire to become as souls on a mission?

And if I wanted to see in you, endless love for an intangible object, all I would do is raise a flag, draw a picture on it, nice and pleasing, teach you it was your beloved, and blow wind on it endlessly until my lungs collapsed. And I will be a martyr, having given my life for another. I will have made the ultimate sacrifice.

But, the intangible object, its me. The flag is me, the picture is me, I am your beloved, I want to be. And my lungs are never free, to spare that single moment, to open my mouth, and just say it. I'll do it, later, someday, right now I'm too busy