i have been writing, i think, since the beginning of time

and it seems perhaps

that no one and everyone is listening at all

that the whole world hungers and the whole world sees and the whole world

i cannot help it

i keep reaching out trying to find a way to fix it

trying to pray hard enough to god that i might be chained, and through y change, the whole world might unroot itself and learn how to love again. i keep eating and seeing and feeling in the hopes that my existence will be enough to count for something. to count up the pieces, to dribble up the wastes. i keep imagining i could write a novel, clear enough and majestic enough that it would send an electric shock through everyone and they would be alive again, but then the words never come. they never come. and it seems the only thing my brain ever wants to write is word flow. nonsense, fragments of poetry and prose. 

and then i think who am i? who am i to think i can change the world or that i SHOULD change the world…or rather impose my world view on others who have a perfectly valid world view. and the world i would try to describe would be one of absolute love, understanding and peace and therefore that act cannot involve some sort of forceful juxtaposition through speech or silent infiltration through the guise of a narrative.

but then i am left again. staring at god’s world. and wondering where he is and why he is letting this world evolve in such a pattern. not even the killing, the shame, the drudgery, the silence and the sorrow. but the numbness. the unconditional unawareness. the vacuousness of voracious people hungry for the tips of their own tongues. and me too, greedy for more hunger. devoid of passion, life, dirt beneath our feet and meaning slicing our destiny together.

but then we must have evolved here for a reason, i suppose. it must have been time for the adventure to sallow and slide away, for our indigenous roots to curl away and for the 

 

is always my quest for redemption too one-sided, one-dimensional and stiff?

why have i not been writing? it’s the only way to see through my dark fog. why don’t we all write? why did i lose my words? have i had nothing to say t wonder to explicate?

 

it seems a spinning wheel

it seems i need someone to talk to, to write to, to write at or about, inside my distorted narrative world words bounce back against the horizon, close me in, make me thirsty. 

 

so am i then only an experiencer? a single solitary cube of emotion and pleasure to contain many infinite worlds, share sparingly some tiny drops of words at passersby…give love through handshakes and skin but never be wholly alive?

that’s what it is. sometimes, when i am fully immersed in a forest, or standing next to the ocean, i feel as if i am on the precipise of myself. something not fully human, but wholly alive. and i can’t ever quite get there. i can’t jump out of my body, i can’t leap out of my cells into the greatness before and around me. i get the feeling that will only ever happen with death. the great release. and i will suddenly be all things at once. i have a deep and corrosive faith in that idea. it’s not an idea. it’s as if all of nature all around me is constantly beckoning- reaching out its branching hands and toothless grins of grass saying ‘come’…’come back’…as if i am separated from myself, from my truth…as if i am living a half life trapped in a body bound by muscles, flesh and breakable bones…as if i am tormented by this insatiable hunger…like a strange and unwinnable game…as if one day i will finally be full. full enough i will never have to eat again. 

 

but then i love this holding cell, this barrel of a body. this quaking fist of needs and neglect. this projector of blood and oxygen. 

 

i have forgotten the who am i of the world and rendered myself useless to the question…what am i?

and the ever present why seems to pale in comparison. 

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