and this was my name. and this was my face, or something that looked like my face. and this was my desire to write. the huge hulking catastrophic urge at the center of my center crying out, clawing out, scratching out the surface and clinging to the crutch of my life.

 

i remember. i remember being a me, but i don’t remember my name. i remember long swaths of sunlight dripping over the tendrils of my skin. i remember soothing sounds of ‘yes you are’ and ‘yes you will be.’ i remember you, your little face all wrapped up around my eyes. i remember this reoccuring dream where i was falling, and falling limply in a white satin sash of something floating.

 at what point do i turn human and at what point am i a me of a me of a me? or a rememberance of a feeling of a floating shape of a me? or at what point do i become so much a part of the roots of this tree that i cease to be a fragment named me and i turn into the truth of treebark and black and white flashes of the cloud’s memories? at what point am i falling and at what point am i gaining on time? running my fingers through the map of my mind? through the labyrinth of age and agelessness. the point where time meets truth meets me meets all the surfaces i have and have not yet touched. at what point am i writing and at what point am i reading the remnants of my last thought thinkings? where does the light flash into my eyes and from whence did it come, did it come back, did it race through the atmosphere to reach me? or am i reaching, branches, leaves and all towards the photosyntheses, the synthesis of my matter to my motion to my meaning to my mind? at what point are my sense sensations trying to subdue the source of my solidarity?

 

the truth is that i lost myself. i do not mean this in any poetic way, i mean this honestly and truly. the truth is that i forgot completely who i was. i sat staring into the sun for so long that i eventually began to sing her song. it didn’t happen in a day and it didn’t happen in a moment, but a series of moments strung together, tied around the rope of a melody of a chunk, or rather, a secret trunk of time.

then all my memories touched me again, breathed into me like water and fell into molasses momentum as they saw their empty beds and silently fled. no memories to speak of. this is a special case. this is not a case for conundrums and critiques and 

 

i’m here in therapy. standing before you on stage. because i want someone to tell me what happened to me. no, that’s not quite right, that’s not quite it. i want to tell you what happened to me. but i can’t say it. i can’t speak it. but maybe through singing it with sounds the syllables will begin to form themselves, dust themselves off and drearily dream themselves into a verse or two you can make sense of. i’m here because i want to make sense of the senseless. no that’s not it. i want to bring nonsense into to serene serreptitious surrender we have all abated ourselves to. i want to make madness of the motion of modernity and i want to split the atom in two, then three, then four-thousand parts…tear it apart so wholly that we can see the whole and the hole right in the middle…then put it back together so you can see it. so you can see it. so you can hear it. taste it. drink my nonsense into your cells and let it jump start your soul back into oblivion. i’m here because i want to remember. no, it’s not about me. i’m here because i want you to remember. i’m writing to get out of myself. i’m writing to give myself back to myself. to put myself back together again so that i can give it to you, so that you can hear yourself through me, so that we can swallow ourselves back into existence and then begin again. 

begin because we have things worth fixing. we have lives worth saving. but no that’s not it either, is it? we can’t save it, we can’t stop this momentum, this gravity clutch clawing us towards our own santimonious soul-lessness.

i’m here to bring back magic. not hocus pocus, not lack of focus, not sideways glances at the moon, not fire and brimstone and the signs of lost sentience. but mystery and mayhem and fire and passion. blood soaked beginnings and burning white births of beauty. people living with something to live for. people no longer pacing the streets, sullen and stagnant and surrendered, but flying and floating and flapping their backpack wings at the call of the clouds. people no longer talking in whispers in curtained corridors and dreary dinner parties but shouting and squealing with all that is sound- i am here.

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