The ghosts who only devour, while professing either ignorance or, outrageously, virtue.

If this is one of those primal facts we must internalize, then fine, fine. My ability to damn well enjoy my life despite my complete lack of faith in any definition of meaning or purpose is truly what sustains me in times of hardship.

And yes, I love the rain. And yes, I am often captivated by the other- their jagged mazes, their wishing wells and echo chambers, their raving mirrors kept locked away, their hidden joys. Coax and commune.

I spend my days around the broken, sometimes guiding them in simple tasks, sometimes darting between their shambling frames. Sometimes all I can do is watch them break even more, standing nearby in compassionate neutrality. Sometimes I tell them stories or make faces and obscene gestures to put them at ease through absurdity, this often works but occasionally social disaster ensues.

Because we are all prone to misunderstanding. It is a rare and lucky few who find each other and cross that gulf, even in fleeting episodes, even in morse code, through dense fogs of gesture and pose, through the mire In-Between, through and through and through.
Agape. Mettā.
There are places which seem special because of their novelty. There are fewer which remain compelling in familiarity. I wish to live in the latter and find myself trapped in various episodes of the former.

I first noticed it in tea, orange pekoe if anyone asks. Later I'd see it in puddles, but only during a perfect rain.

Drops of water floating on water, seemingly frictionless globes sliding across invisible surface tension. Frantic lives measured in two quick blinks before that tension pops and absorbs and that's when I knew that water could thirst.
Sonic chaos again at the mill... What we lack in skill we make up for in... aimless meandering? But that's too harsh. Gallivanting, yeah, sharp toothed predatory fawns chasing down imaginary(and no less elusive) prey, moments fat with the promise of shared exclusivity, moments when it all fits. When Something Important is Happening, not around you or too you but BY you, in realtime

Gorgeous nonsense until 3:00AM, and then the crash, stretching into grey Sundays. Wine, unnecessarily smuggled in baggage on the flight back from Zurich. Stories from the Continent. Driving fast in the dark, floating. Strobe flash of lights from oncoming assures me that yes, this is too fast. Yes, foot should ease up from pedal now. But there's a few inches left. And it beckons, yes, my love, beckons

To make a life of these moments, to be a revolutionary to myself. My own treasured exile stowaway to castaway in alternate blinks on streamlined fins to rust. Crumbling. Reveals skeletal architecture, an abandoned spider playground, a smiling holy woman, dozens of hands hundreds of fingers pleading-pointing at a brightly lit red brick stairway, a single vein in my thumb pops satisfying terrifying, thousands of orphaned puppies rush forth into the waiting arms of loving families, or off by themselves to start a small franchise opportunity they heard about while they were inside. 

What will you make of me in a hundred years? A thousand? I would rather be a mystery, even a chintzy one, than another neat cog in your thresher. And if you, you glorious bastard, come back here and read this and sigh your petulant dissatisfaction allow me to wish you a merry piss off.


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All Eight

August 2017

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