II. Sounds

So much for what is said
So what for what is seen,
Heard,
Felt.
What's real, what lasts
Is the mind.
Words fade
As do memories
But the mind, ones own construction and consequent orientation of day to day perception... THAT is real. That is fact.
That lasts.
So the image one creates for another is nothing more than scattered light
Nothing more than a capricious moment in times fading memory
The image that matters is YOURS
The image that lasts is your own.
One constructed from your own design,
Your own mind.
 
And I've been living in mine, trying to find
Some means of escape.
This is no place for me 
To be. It is no place to stay.
Here it stinks of fear
Reeks of self pity and is marked by resentment
Loathing sense that is my own
Seeing everyday the same, feeling everyday the same.
Finding the deepest chasm and burying myself under the weight of worthless dirt.
Feeling miniscule, ineffectual,
Worthless. Dirt.
And with time the distinction between 
Myself and the soiled earth would decay, melding indiscriminately into a mass of organic inadequacy. 
Bury a body into the unforgiving earth and time will relentlessly pursue their inevitable union.
I have to get out.
I have to get out.
I have to get out.
Not to survive, no. But to live
I have to leave behind crippling images of self worthlessness. 
Of pity and petty doubts
Of damaging thoughts of inadequacy, 
Ineptitude
Criticizing myself from a reflection of blackened narcissism
No.
I have to get out...
                                ...  free myself from...
                                                                     ...  myself.
 
But it would seem I've relented my own power to a
childish,
manipulative,
incarnation of my insecurities, 
                                                                 of                             on a
                                                mentality                                               tenuous
    A sadistic youth yoyo-ing my                               self worth                                    string
                                                               
                                                                       
                                                                -stupid, slow, pointless-
 
 
He chucks that yo yo back back, forth, arcing it up, catching air, releasing tension for a brief moment, then down again into the sinisterly hypnotic rythmn of notion.
 
                                                                 -pointless, stupid, slow-
 
And I believe. Every word.
And so the mind dims.
And so the yo yo slings on...
 
                                                       
                                                        Can I just eat candy and breathe easy?
   
 Can I roll myself down a hill and crash into the earth below?
                                                                 
                                                                      Can I scream at the lights for flickering?
                           
                               Can I write my name in the snow for just the sky to see?
 
 
           See...                                                                                                  ...the sky is just
 
 
                                                 It is indifferent in its judgement.
                                                         Wholly impersonal.
                                                  Just far enough away to trust. 
                                               The sky does not reflect the earth
                                                           and just as such,
 
                        My words will not be reflected back from its pensieve blue space. 
                                            I can never recieve back what was given.
            Cannot stare upwards only to be rewarded by the scrutiny mirrored in self reflection.
 
                                                                                   
                                                                     No.
 
 
It is obstinate, the name I write.
And in gracious indifference it is fixed upon the clouds with no clear path down 
to its origin.
And when the clouds break 
In relief of their newfound weight, they will break in boisterous declarations,
In hushed whispers,
In a steady, ubiquitous anonymity.
The sky will collapse upon the earth, sending it's notes in high and low hums to what is dry below, before. 
It will fall in cryptic rhythms, creating subtle music. Retaining a certain honesty, a quality,
A sound so sweet, it rings.
 
I will hear the rain through my window,
and find solace from worldly things.
 
 
 
 
 
 

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