I don’t know.
No, it’s a long story.
I tried to leave but couldn’t.
Somehow, I found the motivation.
Not everyone will be taken into the future, but everything depends on it. The future. Our imagined version of it. All of this is because the future seems to exist in some way and there will be no repeat.
One: I shall not be taken.
Another: I can’t wait.
Another another: When do we leave?
In one moment, it seems that everything is responsive to my every move. That is, before I can bear any judgments, I am adventuring in my head just by existing under that sky. The enormity of all of that, that is, the madness of it, the aberrant nature of sky that you stare at longer and longer until it blurs together, until more lights appear, until you can see that entire enormity of possibility start to spin, slowly, eternally, the power of light that reflects intensely, necessarily.
How to impose a poetic order on that night sky? From down here, none of it is completely ours. Only the distinctness of new beginnings that are already endings. That is, you see a star being born, and by the time you have seen it, it is already dead.
From up there, the blaring glare of silence, the witnessing of archetypes being born. Mirages of nostalgia. An endless zone of regrets.
Why would I remain here?
What I fear more than anything is being alone.
For me, it is important to just exist.
In the brightly lit darkness, dialogues with the dead.
The reshaping of a kind of communication that can elicit marvel.
The broken down quality of an archetype that doesn’t know how to restart. That is, in the memory it is always blue.
But hyphens are pauses, and the poor dreaming self is still hiding behind the memory of a color that was never seen. Lost.
I realize how charged I am with hesitation, that this is what drives everything, the echo of heartache that lingers over everything I love. The more I fall in love, the louder that echo, the closer that thud, an exaggerated poetic impulse that is as natural as smothering your lover alive in his sleep.
I realize how the language gets put away each night, how the stars absorb the phobia of inner space even when I forget to look up, prevents me from smothering myself and forces my body into compulsory shaking, a shut-down of senses that opens up a horizon for new and deserved breath. Enough is enough. Again, breathe.
Too much space smothers me, convinces me into thinking what an open space I am moving through, that there is not enough certainty to fill this vastness, the oppression of freedom, the illusion of space. Fibers live on.
Because your eyes have been closed.
A landing site for eyes.
Wow, it’s all so different!
Is it continuous?
I have been very unhappy with myself.
It was only in my imagination.
For me, it’s important to feel.
So that the bent-blue of one sky elicits the dynamism of the cool-grey of evening, that unfaltering chill that comes with an ardor of words. I live on at ground level and we hold hands, heels digging into the ground and looking up at millions and millions of fires.
From up there, looking down, the menace of wandering, the manifestation of new cosmic slowness, rootlike, with no ground for roots to take root, hard wood texture a memory, so, too, the color blue. One takes shelter in the imagined ash of dead beings, sleeping, a slight shock that wakes you when the metaphor becomes too much or is inadequate for flight.
Pointing out what is wrong in your argument.
Not caring about the register of objects, but the tremor of voices.
I am speaking. I am speaking.
The absurdity is that you can not hear me.