these words'll explode

rain drops, blinds shut, i opened my eyes inspired by you shining before the day. bright, i read some of your writing, a few expressions, fireworks, i know, so here i am, still dreaming, answering the question you were going to ask me in person. where it comes from?

there's that analogy about putting a fishing line into a river. sometimes like a stream, ocean, tar pit. sometimes immerse the entire self and raft as bait, swim like fish, somewhere primordial. wreckage from a sunken ship, a swarm of birds, confusion helping, flapping wings, invigorating the search. i like getting held under by waves if i've forged my body strong enough. but i'd be an asshole, or defensive, scared, to say that it's a choice. there've been fires and flames, wounds that never return the skin of life to it's regularly scheduled program. and there's nothing glorious about those painful moments that shred any sense of control, shown ugly, drafted into wars and aches to which there was no boot camp. they just happen and we do our best and they feed something, wounds always seem to be feeding something. and we try to paint something else beautiful, redemptive, with the blood, bravely. but all that muck, that's only a sliver, is the truth. freud once told me he'd never felt the oceanic moment and i laughed at his cold tone and admired his detachment, like i would a monk's, from afar, glad to be shown someone new and different. but my heart's beaten and thrived in rhythm, in rhythm, the kind you love entirely alone, then sometimes the kind that makes you want to rush to the highest cliff in town, yell from the top of your lungs, hug your mother, kiss the ground, sacrifice everything you have in this form and catapult massively into the ocean, splashing something powerful and intricate enough that the whole world gazes upon this creation for a simple moment and smiles inside and out. There's joy, pain, chaos, banana cream pie and somewhere else, there's always somewhere else and here. and if i'd seen that homeless guy chasing god down the street, i would've tackled him down to his knees or, with your help, forced him into buddha's lotus position and blindfolded, gagged, earplugged him until he let the pain subside and shut up to the magic. there's always the magic, which we revere and emulate in circulation and it makes it simple, humble. and then we begin, listen, express, listen, revere, listen, struggle, listen, smile, listen, care, listen and play.

i'll tell you the rest in person.

quiet company

sometimes we sacrifice the moment for a photo. fixed and blessed pasts cement in visual time. the flawed resonance ebbs and flows according to mixed feelings of honesty and delusion. in our minds in our guts, frames of energy slip in exchange for capture. experience in a cage. soon, the attachment to the past begins to thin in interest and in soul. our lives are not a nightclub or a prison, infirmary or ward, only dioramas with suspicious doors on all sides. opening to delays and freedoms and something larger. a blanket is only so thin, body so warm, planet large. trust something more than your seductive eyes.

two people

beginnings hurt. childbirth is a beginning.

exactly.

...exactly.

no, it's a good thing. like riding a bike. you know, cuz at first you fall a couple times, then once you get your balance and ride off, yeah you ride off.

forget about yourself

the past is a black crow flying in the opposite direction. and you're walking away and becoming quiet again, and this moment actively going somewhere. instead of stepping around the coral tree you're climbing through it, where between branches of growth and limbs of surrender you recognize a sense of passage. without shielding your eyes, it can be scary, bright, forward. it can also be beautiful watching time unfolding messy abstract art with hints of linear. where now the day beams through your window in friendly greeting.