Speed of Light Squared
What does freedom look like? How do I simulate it with words? Is it the will to Heaven manifested in every moment? Isn’t that what catharsis presupposes anyway – a strange adjustment from what’s inside to reality? And on that note, does freedom have to be an emotional sensation?
Jeez questions questions! Boxes within thoughts within boxes made of dots. Solar eclipses are better for my spine than trips to the chiropractor. On the tundra I can see Jupiter – the brightest looking star by far. Orion, Perseus, Taurus, Ares, Andromeda, Cassiopeia – ancient stories swirling around the King of Gods. It’s just another night with a cigarette and an iPad – feelings fluctuating between alive and sad.
That’s me, mostly cosmic.
My cells have will power; they’re pushing a part, all reaching for the sun, or maybe just another vessel to leap onto; maybe that’s why I’m driven towards sex. My cells are like galaxies, my mind is like a black hole.
My heart’s just like, wtf man?
What ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
Oh shut up you know I love you – spinning words just means I’m passing the time – ah, look, a rhyme! Writing is like exploring the dense forest in home’s backyard. You don’t really know where you’re going, and you’re pretty sure you’ll find your way home. And why do we do it?
Why are you reading the next word – word after absurd gurgling burst of murderous word?
Curiosity.
This is what purpose feels like. I’m trapped in the current of humanity’s suicidal sentiments, asking Poseidon to help me temper it. It’s dark and cold, and the pressure’s like – well I can’t really hear anything, because I think my ears exploded a long time ago (probably at a music festival), so you see – every thought’s a digestive success, every word leads to the next best alternative to real rest. Every poem is a prayer transmitting my deepest-most care not to the reader, no, not just to you.
But to everything.