you hold this machine like it’s a torch
like a trophy
like a boarding pass to another world.
it makes you think less
and sink into a slump.
it makes you forget the one
that sits beside you
looking at you
waiting for her turn
to be your torch
to lace our hands together
and compare our temperatures
you look away.
i want to look into you
but you look into glass
and your eyes turn into glass
and they are unfamiliar.
your machine takes you away from me.
I’m going to be more loose.
If I want to fall, I’ll let myself fall so hard I’ll taste blood in my mouth
and crack my wrists under my back
and fall in the most unbeautiful, messy way possible
so I can learn to rearrange myself
and try some new shapes out.
I’m not going to be clean and meticulous anymore.
That game is for chumps.
I used to spit up on the floor
and carve the puddle into something pretty,
something I can be proud to make.
I’m done with carving.
I want to throw up all over myself,
onto the floor,
and leave it there,
and walk away,
and be proud of that.
I want to know it’s there
in its most organic form,
erratic and complicated,
and be proud of that.
I want to spill myself out
and walk away
and not overthink it
because that fucks it up
and be proud of that.
I want to step around it
and fall through the dilapidated floorboards
and into a pile of asbestos-ridden,
rotting and ruined rubbish
to remind myself that I’m not trying to impress anyone
with something clean and maintained.
A fuck-all stride and a thousand dried-out pens
paper that’s slightly damp, that won’t hold ink
a couple of radios on, tuned to different stations
a crying baby
with the radiator on too high
and I’m wearing a sweater.
Let me feel fucking uncomfortable
and not take my time with it anymore.
I spend too much time doing the things I enjoy
and for that I am unhappy
so they say.
They tell me to use time more wisely.
To scrub more floors
To commute more often
To pay more rent
To take more Advil
To work longer
To miss out on family
To clean the dishes
To break more bones
To make more connections
To lease a car
To file taxes on time
To spill more coffee
To iron my shirt
To feel sweat on my brow
To take another call
To skip another meal
To catch another train on time
or miss this one
To be a daysleeper
and a nightdreamer
To replace the sun with an LCD screen
To be able to lock my own door
sit on my own couch
and eat my own leftovers
To go to my own bed
To wake up
To dress up
and set myself to repeat.
To make Mom & Dad proud.
these are the requirements.
This is the measure of time
I am expected to squeeze and stretch
to limit virtue and cash in my basin of energy
and somehow still laugh about it.
Where do I pencil myself in?
I don’t feel the taste of salt on my lip.
Instead I am clean and polished
when I want to feel rough and covered
in dirt I have to shovel through
in order to birth something
that embraces the unfavorable.
I am flat against the wall
I am so still that sediment freely gliding in the air
traces my body and draws my outline on the cold rock
that joins itself at four points
to make a box
that I find myself spending too much time in
So then I am rough and covered.
But it is because of my idleness
I want to move, run
Catching dirt with my distance.
stifles progressive creation
and sucks me dry.
I am bone and paper.
I’ve lost my skin.
A tide of brackish water doubles up,
pushing towards the shore
filling the hole I claimed as habitat.
Where I disappeared.
All my baggage that lain on crushed salt and sand is gone.
I revisit my location
and do not recognize it.
I walk past, trying to find where it is
and where I am.
There is nothing worse than the derailment that can proceed a burst of inspiration. It is something close to dehumanization.
I can glide my fingers over letters and knit a moment into a block of words but at this time, I have lost it.
It’s so simple
to listen to the words in your brain and do what is required to make those words permanent.
It should be so effortless, rewarding, and sublime.
If one sits too long in their chair, they become that chair. They won’t move. They’re just a fixture.
The time spent sitting will take twice as long when the subject yearns to become human again. After being still for so long, the simple act of moving fingers requires the energy to commit, the energy to evaluate, and the energy to keep consistent all while carrying the weight that composes the body. This momentum bleeds out when the subject is at rest because the energy is not being used. It will find a more reliable parent to host its power.
We are heavy
with thoughts and ‘what-ifs’ and personally-made imaginary movies that screen in our heads when we are sitting comfortably.
We watch movies when we are comfortable. We will watch the projected life we want to fulfill and do it for too long because naturally, the pain and discomfort of our personal criticism can be filtered, cut out, so that we feel confident and unafflicted. Disturbance is not welcomed as something to dwell in because it brings out insecurity, which erodes the shell of a self-constructed high social status and elicits paranoia.
I enjoy pain
but I can’t enjoy being discontent with the picture I see. Immediate displeasure causes me to think and challenge the events that caused the feeling. I can be upset that I spilled a mug of coffee on a table but that table could be the place I sit at for too long, watching the film I’ve made for myself: the projected, perfect, fluid life. The life I want to direct on a stage so I can explore and make it active, tangible, and genuine. Fleeting moments of pain are action. Fleeting moments of pleasure are action. I cannot physically live through the ideal projection in my head when I am sitting.
It is what we do with our time given that establishes the breadth of personal experience and observation. A week of repetition can feel like a fleeting second because it is void of depth and discovery. There is no viable material that can come from a length of empty activity that will elicit cultured development. It is a pile of finely cut dust that leaves a residue but is easily brushed off with time. You may disagree with me but hold on.
I spent years trying to shake off the accumulating pile from my head. Anything that has enough quantity to it will become too much to handle, even with something as weightless as specks of dust. After a while I lost the energy to pick my hand up. And I did not look like myself anymore. I felt heavy, dry, an empty husk. I could move the corners of my mouth to gesture but it was not genuine anymore.
When I lost vibrancy to my creative intuition, I realized that this idle state of being was a manifestation. Immediately, I uncloaked myself from the shell I hid in and drank the life I had fasted on. The relationships I had with friends solidified and new minds were sought after. I discovered the energy of people that were not in my life during my idle period and I felt rejuvenated.
During a time of self-reflection and discovery, things happen quickly when the subject wishes to pursue their objective quickly. I met wonderful friends who wanted to discover and play and drink the vitamin of life. I did not care to take my time. This was what I wanted.
Coincidentally, I met a partner who runs fast to a source of adventure, who reworks the way I laugh, who colors his eyes in the same shade as mine. I felt a line of resistance tug the momentum of my self-discovery. I wanted to examine every piece of his energy, the cadence of his voice, the way he emoted.
We began an exhilarating romantic relationship. The time since we committed to a partnership has been only for a few months on this day yet it has been gushing with dynamic experience and never-ending play. It is effortless. It is rejuvenating and compassionate. The time we mold as a union is respected and challenged. Through this mutual understanding, a rigid foundation is cementing itself through the weight of the days we spend together.
I do love you. My time with you so far has been illuminated and I look forward to the adventures we have ahead.