How does one create in this place of dust and death? Where creativity itself is artificial, the neon light, rather than the glowing rapture of the oil lamp?
I push through the the cholestrol-infested streets on my nightly sojourn. My mind, a plastic bag, floating through endless corridors.
The anxiety forces itself on my chest. A place, a name, an idea, a certainty, a lack of... no more please, I can't breathe. It's difficult to look with cool eyes on the shattered horizon, the blare of the luxury cars, gleaming, arrogant, self satisfied.
To be drunk is to be innocent of all this artifice. To be honest, or at least more honest than this. To make pleasure and give it. No more repeating lines in my head to rehearse a thought, so it may be well-crafted and extruded faux extemporaneously.
Acquiescence.
Slowly this air, this skin, does not seem strange anymore.
I run to forget. I gaze out to take in the big picture, all those faces merely trees in the forest. I see neither the forest nor the trees.
I run away from my body but it keeps finding me.
2 comments:
Do we trust they way things look? Or are our emotions perhaps a truer litmus paper?
Very lovely. Very.
Thanks PTB. Coming from you that's a huge compliment. And I appreciate it.
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