There is a whisper laying heavily across the hills outside our back window. It calls of frost and aching joints amid pale rains covering all the land in pure bone shades before the grime of cars and feet tracks humanity across that softest of faces.
Forever replete in an incomplete cycle washed to bare sticks and the legend of struggle through the flames of Summer which left vaunted few standing into the withering of Fall. Not in perpetuity do the giants stand, rather, they grovel to the wind and vanishing sun as it takes it’s yearly rest deep in the night.
Ground down over a mashing of ephemeral gears as children romped across their veins sucking desperate gulps of life through buried tendrils. Survival as a gasp to share their essence revealed finally as they die beneath the weight of Winter.
I’m looking for a flow to spew, to vomit pained fire in words and lyrical nonsense, drench virtual paper in a cascade of feeling, wishing for the release of a moment where my fingertips press onto keys melded into an outpouring of something greater than myself. I’m looking for a rhythm and a cadence, and empty hollow to rest my eyes and heart within where my brain can’t intrude or interrupt where the language is something not of word but made of a noise that comes from deeper down primal and totally absent of definition. I’m looking for a tapping of keys that harmonizes with my feelings and that calms waters boiling over with discontent where monsters lurk and playful creatures breathe imagination as though it were the purest of air carefree in their joy and hungers contented to be their own masters and demanding nothing from anyone. I’m shaking the trees of logic and thought demanding that they un-fucking-root and get on with the business of dying so that chaos can wash over me as a wind of compassion letting me know that the madness is so very real that anything else was a facade and an illusion that its okay and I’ve come home to rest where I belong. I’m lacing myself with poisons to calm the nerves incinerating the memories of dreams never to be realized in pools of chemical passivity bleeding oil into my disquiet shores where the glass and sand are never polished and always cut though they shine like diamonds to lure you in. I’m hunting for a flow, that special moment when time collapses on itself and there is oneness understanding, immutable confidence, and a distant stare connection to more, recognition and awareness, centered peace, consolidated thoughts, pacified emotions, acceptance, and satisfaction. I’m looking for a flow, one that tells me loneliness is temporary, and that the universe is there in all its infinity and splendor ready to skull fuck me back into joy when it feels fit that reminds me there’s no point sulking and being miserable this is the human condition in all its shit stained raimants and that I could be grateful for the ability and opportunity to experience it. I’m looking for a flow, but right now I’m just writing, and there’s no flow to be found.