9.09.2009

When you Shut Up.

I feel as though people are always telling me to "Be Prepared", whether it's said in so many words or not. "Take Care". "Be Careful". Like knowing was half the battle, and if I only knew to "Watch out!", I could avert, tackle, vanquish, or succumb to whatever it was I ought to be afraid of, although I usually am not.

For me, the edge of a cliff is where I feel at home, and every inch stepped closer makes me want to dangle my feet over oblivion just a little bit more. Just a bit more. Perhaps one day I will fall, but at least I could tell you that I died walking home–doorstep at my feet, then at my knees...rising to swallow my waist in horizon, and finally shooting up past the tips of my hair, like the slamming of a black door that I cannot unlock.

A few people feel this way, but most will want to fix you. This is the type of talk that makes mothers squirm, and fathers huddle to quiet places. Make them need to evade that figure that so recently tapped his bony finger on the door.

On their way they will tell you to "Be Careful", or that "I Love You" as if that advice, or that fact, could stop the ground from rushing up to meet your careless feet. Maybe if they could tell me what comes around the corner, I might listen.
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I was born with a brain that will not, under any circumstances disconnect. Every moment is rife with millions of unending tiny lines of code that build colors that repeat, and repeat, and repeat like someone forgot to yell "Stop!"...

The way a tunnel repeats.

Some days it's worse than others...many days I feel as though I'm losing hold of reality. Sinking into a purely subjective life, held captive by the cruel arbiter that crushingly turns my eyes.

But always in the end it is wisps, and ever lifts from me. Today it flees as much as on this page it stays, and in permanent words I've pinned down a cloud and put it on display. Squirming there under the lights, it is dying. Run through with the desire of a world of people wanting there to be no more night, lying prostrate and bleeding on a pink page. The last of its kind, wracked with desperation, the crowds see it buckle and writhe though never shed a tear, do not give one drop of mercy for its tortured soul. There will be a death rattle no one will hear and no one will miss, a heartbeat none will be privy to, and a dying that no one will notice, but me.

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