Qu'est Que C'est?

Shiva

The translucently oneiric quality with which she
held herself was darkly fascinating
the corridors of her
mouth held secrets sustained on
mud. Luscious lips
tied a white ribbon through the
pot. Holes of my mind which are
endless and unflinching and through which
I must navigate while she cooes with promises of
sleep. Less nights full of cinammon air and
drenched velvet clinging to
the contours of consciousness which
pull at my heart. Strings and pull
me ap a r t apa r t a pa rt
a p a r t.

She is the very creator of my willful destruction.
Hello Shiva.

Sunshine.

And you are perfect.

It's not our place to adjust the universe.

Fuzz.

The rap of the keys on the counter. Eyes blurry. Heavy. Mottled skin, bloated. Fingernails swollen and tired. Collapse into bed and surrender to the ripples. Surrender to the gray. Mind is floating far, far. But no coherent thought enters. Nothing comprehends.

There's one. Fish floating in the sky. Papers and plates to wash. Time-lines without expiration dates. I'm on the swings now. There sits a girl with brilliantly red hair, with a smile that is deeper than my heart.

Cubicles caked with rust and lusty profanities. Torn apologies flutter in the cloudy sky. A ribbon woven, white, throughout time and space. I stir a small silver spoon in a pot of tea, and then I realize.

Our greatest enemy is the gray. The never changing order of things, through which the poisonous seeds of boredom and thought ensue. The inability to be aware of a single moment or thing, the inability to grasp the simple beauty of life. When we are gray, we forget how to live; even though all we are doing the whole time is perfoming the cycles of life.

When we are gray, we wash away simplicity. We wash away complexity. We wash away love, passion, anger, hate.

Monotony will become your destruction.

Chewed fingernails, bad haircuts. I slip in and out of lucidity. Not minding really. Just waiting to throw my keys on the counter and dissolve into the folds of my consciousness and slip away. It will all become clear someday. Maybe.

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.