Awe

“Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.” 

Rudyard Kipling

~

I was frozen face down, my nose nearing a centered hug to the edge of the pavement, and life's bare foot thundered down on the back of my head. Reddish retrocausal lightning ensued in a bloodied painting with no title. The shattered fabric of the crushed brain dyed the sidewalk dust with the dry dew of the paradoxical void - a silent story read in between the lines of cobblestone about a broken face of a soul that wrote itself off onto the empty memory of a conceptual black hole that sucked life's misstep into the razor-light mirror-like shredder I was hiding behind my eyes. And thus the only hug was that of a two-dimensional bear-trap set to the seventh Solfeggio frequency folding life's knee into counter-clockwise oblivion. The scent was that of frozen concrete melting at the touch of the eccentric lullaby of a victim of anti-heroism, an artless artist with ink flowing from the edge of his hair to the shadowy sunset of life's heel. What you heard was the melodic ink, a rhyme and a tale about the minute difference, all delicate and frail, between the hellish curtains and the holy veils, the ruptured mirrors and the punctured grails, the conceptual twist of the maze-like tails and the paradigm shift of the wind in the sails,

Adjusting.

Speak of necessary fine-tuning to the projector of meaning before the story ends, beneath the pattern that bends under the weight of reality settled on the surface of the black swamp in your hair. Speak to the night of the morning pale, the edge of colored thoughts and humid lyrics about the reconstructed taste of dawn in the tea and the Pyrrhic victory of two ends converging behind the illuminated bitter-sweetness of smoke. 

Failing.

There are no words.

Some see words as series of clawing strikes to the face of existence attempting to rip it of its raw beauty, leaving lettered scars in a light of diminished value. That's why they say that there are no words, why silence is revered in the realm of beauty.

Obviously, I disagree.

There are words. And when placed in the right way, for the right reasons, the words, presumably read at the right time, will change both you and your existence. And they will then tell you that it is up to you to change the world.

Re-adjusting.

My words often fail to make it back from the realm of metaphorical resonance. They fail to make a difference. But we are who we are and it is what it is. No.

Now, what if we could see the different scales that map the maze of mankind, the magical axis of imaginary time, and the bright light of childlike wonder floating in between the moment and the while - what happens then?

The iris was frozen in the labyrinth it holds, and life put a knife through its back.

So it poured its story of melancholic tears in the thirsty lines between cockroach mountains. No.

I found the axis set to the beat of my heart.

And I discovered that the light was made of metaphors. 

I opened the map at every turn and every curl and I kept asking myself, what do you see?

What do you see? What do you see?

I saw the map staring back at me.

I happened.

And now, there are no words.

~

"Once we realize the extraordinary power we have to compose our lives, we'll move from passive, conditioned thinking to being co-creators of our fate."

Jason Silva

Remedy

"And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death."
Pink Floyd

~

Time flows along these lines as they progressively grow sickened by my words. Time glides through the stream of your heartbeats, dodging its micro-seismic echoes and their heavenly cosmic beat. And time drowns beneath the line pulling down with it all the colors of the sunset. And as time fades into the calm and quiet watery waves of the mind, I lose sight of the infinite scene.

Time is buried along with all these colorful thoughts and yet there you are. There you are, the dream-girl who separates sky and sea, day and night, heart from body and mind from reality. And there they are, the edges outside which everything is blurred, the eyes that silence the world. And there it is, the smile that redefines both my heart and horizon, and every single word in between.

I, both fortunately and unfortunately, do not believe in time. But that doesn't matter because, either way, these misarranged words are mere ashes of an aching mind decorated with the metaphorical dust of a fraudulent self-destructive attempt at a heart. And it doesn't matter because this wind around me does not know the difference between the ash that once faked meaning in a blazing heart and the dust that disfigured pain, killed it, made a statue of it and then built a maze of walls around the statue only to realize that it was all in vain because metaphors bear no remedy for the heart.

So pretend. Pretend that you're walking in the slowest motion while all that's around you is restlessly running in the opposite direction. Pretend that your mind is hovering, exploring minds and structures, systems and thoughts, the origin beneath and beyond, and the almost indiscernible idea that seems to make all the difference. Pretend that your heartbeats are floating like bubbles, rushing toward that bed-ridden sunset that never really happened because it knows that the horizon is more empty than the phantom concept of society and even more so compared to this vacant chest of disappearing ink which believes in neither concepts nor horizons. Pretend all you want, really. Meanwhile, I'll pretend that you're only running for cover, that your mind is in fight mode because it's undecided on whether your heart is in that flight mode with underdeveloped legs, or in this one, with dormant wings.

Through and through, I've always walked alone. Surely, I've met individuals that were beyond grace and wonder, though they sadly couldn't see it. Yet though we walked side by side in the blessed moments at which our roads converged, I somehow always walked alone, and deep inside, they did too. But, there were other moments where I looked behind my shoulder with that slight turn of the head, and you were always there, the heavenly jewel that keeps the volcano from erupting. Through and through, I've always walked alone, but you were there too.

In any case, the music plays on. The melody fades inward into me, and outward into another tune as the rhythm within fluctuates in a manner mystically proportional to the two oscillating heartstrings I have left...

But regardless, whether your aspired home is on the mountains of power or in the stars of love, whether you seek strength and value to hide your insecurities or a make-believe romantic fairytale to feel worthy of love, whether you fall off the edge of your pride or burn out and think yourself into a state of stardust, whether all you do is reducible to the love of power or divisible into a series of hopeless shots in a dark sky that's always missing the power of love, whether you know that your heart and mind are withering and the people you love are dying in their own special ways or whether you drown those dreadful waves in numerous kinds of addictions, time is running out. Time is running out.

Time flows along my words as they progressively grow sickened by these lines. The main upside is that words and times are changing which probably means that my worn-out roadmap of being and becoming has redrawn its lines.

It's time to go.

Come what may.

~

"The time is gone, the song is over, thought I had something more to say."

Pink Floyd