Those mornings pulling star shine out of my hair, ripping my eyelashes apart to drag my body out into the breaking light of a new day. So early, so early, such body-quaking early-ness. To watch all those sunrises and to swim in all those sunsets. But so many of them would splinter the world in two and I wouldn’t know if I was on a planet or a star or a softly falling meteor. I was out there, I was in the world and yet the world was not following me. No one knew where I was and yet I was everywhere. Speeding along roads and slamming up mountains, following the water, following the horizon, following the sun. Letting the moon bake into my crust at night. And I always let those stars shine hollow into my sockets. Rocks and spinning pathways, I was always scrambling towards and away. Always those sunrises, breaking me apart. Always that space, that visible space – it was a state of being, not a place. It was the passion with which I was chasing the world. That’s all it took. And it took everything from me. I still ache for it. For that feeling of being on fire. Of glowing from the inside.

The whole fucking thing was visible from all those vistas. All the time. The whole fucking thing. That full perspective. Horizon, earth, sky, twisting stars, spinning landforms, millennia shape-hands, catapulting sea, the place where all things meet. I miss seeing the big picture. Horizons get small and dotted with telephone poles here. Splinter-celled with electrical wires, plumes of smoke, hazy, hashy car fumes, dizzy neon lights and all those unwelcome signs. The plummet of signs – dentist, dermatologist, lawyer, tax refund, car wash, nonsense, nonsense, money, nonsense, advertise to me at every breath. At every stop light. Please don’t ever stop. The cataclysm of bold, black font, soulless washed out aesthetic. No aesthetic. No music. No nothing but more shit to sell. Always more shit to sell. Always more shit to buy. Always more buy to burden. Always more bought to fold, to wash, to clean, to tidy, to mess, to filter. Always more belongings to belong to you and yet so very few sacred holes in the world to belong to. So very few communities of love and shelter to belong to. Sacred memories to shelter. Sacred spaces to honor.

Earth, please turn green again. Vines, please crawl your spindly legs towards me. Sun, please wash my aching eyes clean. Fire, come set me on fire. I want to burn again.

I always have the same complaints, it seems. Too much sold, not enough soul.

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