You know who you are (from Feb ’08)

Clutching the cusp of this cyclical existence where I eat my tail and wonder why the pain tastes familiar. She bounces and I dive, hit the bottom at the top of the mountain. It’s coming around again. Soon the floodgates will open and my lungs will fill with her voice, only to have the breath knocked out of me.

Don’t tell me that it’ll be alright, try spending a night between my sheets and see where you fit in. I lost sight of who I am so long ago that I’m scared this life won’t begin. Scarier yet is I’m starting a love affair with this lonely, even with the crowd ebbing around me.

Give this bleeding heart romantic his due, I go into this conscious that with every lift the fall is coming and I can’t smile at the rocks below anymore. This time the river in me dries up in the calm before the flood – the drought has broken now and the water’s rushing through me. It’s clearing the doubt away and I rise to my knees only to be dragged back the same way.

I recall that you’d recoil at the lightest touch, and I still miss you, but not that much. Now I’ve got the world on my shoulders and I don’t know why, anaemic with gums bleeding me dry. When the sun goes down on another week, another year, I crush under the idea of you.

This hollow in my chest holds me tighter than you ever did but when night falls these lies twist in my lungs, their faces meld into one and I search the eyes for a deus ex machina. I’m stuck here trying to raise Atlantis when legends are dead and empty of your embrace. Soon enough I push you all away.

[The only peace I know is nailed in/on pine. | He with the longest memory wins and loses.]

I’m in my head. And you talk about leaving town but that’s just geography.

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What If

What if my stomach was an energetic sponge, soaking up other people’s emotions and playing out their pain in my solar plexus?

What if the world were in a constant state of romantic tail-chasing, where everybody is interested in somebody else, never those who chase us?

What if late night TV is the only TV worth watching? Cute little college-aged American lesbians definitely have serious appeal.

What if all we ever really do is kid ourselves about who we are? What if Tolle was right and we not only can never know who we are, we never need to know?

What if consciousness really is king, and all else is egoic mind-chatter, an intricate, diversionary form of self-sabotage?