Whispers

These past couple of nights have been the longest of my life. Such restlessness. Such fear. Such slow pace. Such isolation.

My mind has obscured me. I exist in dormancy. Exiled by my mind's treachery to an island far beyond the horizon. Messages in bottles crudely written in my blood and passion bob about restlessly in the waves. They do not stray far enough. They vanish into nihil. Nothing comes from this island. I lie on the sand. The tide comes closer and closer. My toes blister more and more through time. I look up into the sky and see clouds fly.

I had a dream once. I dreamt I was a cloud floating above a spectrum sea. All possible colors rippled and whirlpooled in these waters. Restless vessels struggled to stay afloat, to no avail. Within me was a peacock. She was beautiful. We both mingled as gas for an eternity. Time was lost and I felt present in this forever. Lucid too. I was perfectly aware that this was a dream. I knew very vividly that this peacock was nothing more than an apparition of my sleeping mind. Despite this, I let my mind embrace this intimacy as if it were really so. We kissed, danced, and whispered in infinity for infinity. I felt what it was like to be genuinely close. Then I woke up.

Here I lie, on my island. The clouds leave monstrous shadows on the infant waves. The sandcrabs descend to greater shadow. I look up at these clouds. Though my ears fail to comprehend this, I know that whispers dance within these clouds. Much too high are these clouds. The softly spoken intimacy does not transmit to me. I'm much too low.

In searching for these whispers in the past, I have found nothing but the great masquerade. Veils of intricate design hiding the tears and the screams. The eyes tell a story of desperation, and the words are emitted like the keys played by a pianist who feels nothing at all. The skin of humanity is not worn. We hide behind personalities, fabrications. We are clothed. We are the clothed beings. Our naked selves hide in panic, for taboo has scared them away. Refuge is taken in the mist of conformity and familiarity.

During this masquerade though, some sneak away giggling. Some remove the masks and the fabrications. Some turn to gas among one another and seep through the veils. Among the clouds, as the clouds, they whisper, not shout. There have been times, short bursts, where I look down and see my fingers steaming and dissolving into the sky. There have been times, short bursts, where this steam quickly mingled with the steam of another. Masks aside, personalities aside, a subtle little dance. This is fleeting. This doesn't fully satisfy my steam self. Perhaps my dreams have made my standards too high. This is just one of the many ways in which they've estranged me.

I had a nightmare once. This was more recently then that dream. That dream was years ago. This nightmare was days ago. I dreamt I was killed, yet my soul still lived inside of me. My body was hollow. Nothing in it but stacks of restless boxes. I wandered this warehouse for an eternity, every few moments I was ridiculed and attacked by people I knew abruptly erupting from these boxes. When it grew to be too much, I awoke into sleep paralysis. There was no escape. There was no compromise. This lasted forever. Forever. Forever. In this time, I sailed away. Thousands, millions, billions, trillions of miles away from anybody. Everybody. Then I woke up on this island.

I want nothing more than to sail back. I want nothing more than to be the drunkard at the great masquerade. Making a fool of himself and not knowing it. Occasionally and casually taken by the hand and turned into a cloud. I never want to be a full solid ever again. My dreams have made this something I cannot abide by not having. I think it is finally ripping me to shreds. It is killing me. Killing me. I feel absolutely nothing at all. Nothing. This post mitigates nothing.

This has been heavily concentrated since the very dawn of 2011. It was at the beach when I first decided that my centralized goal was to turn to steam and dance with another. Splashing in the waves, I felt intimate with my fears. In my heart ignited a smoldering ember. I wanted this with mankind too. Seldom have I had this. The ember burns me. My pain reflex, as if flicking a finger away from the flame, has been going on for months on end. The pain reflex is the pursuit of this closeness, which is in vain. Two reasons, the powers that be make it impossible because of this reason or that reason, and because my brain has forced me into a state of isolation. Deep, dark isolation. I can't stand it anymore. I just can't. All of my creations this year feel empty to me now, because my pursuit is too absolute and full of itself. Really, for a fellow aiming to achieve selflessness, I'm pretty fucking selfish.

I've given up. I'm too far away. One can only shout so long. If I can't be close to others, I will instead learn to bask in my distance through embracing this heartache. It'll be there either way so I have no choice.  My mind has insisted upon this being my abode. My dreams are winning. I will learn to bask in this if it means losing every drop of blood I have. I have no choice... and I have a feeling it isn't going to work.

There is so much more I want to say. There are things said here that I want to say differently. Because of the culture I live in, I have to be vague about certain things. I need to sugar coat my sentences. I can't be direct. I certainly know how much this culture loves coats of sugar. I'll try to sum it all up like this...

I had a dream once. I was close. I was intimate. I was steam. Then I woke up.

The Electric Line

I fall. I fly. All within the electric line. Between houses. Here and there. Pipes, chimes, electric chimes. Frankly, there was nothing. There is nothing. Emptiness, without you. The bone men play the bone horns. They sound death. Death, falling off the ledge of grass. Cheering among the grass. Cheering among the grass. The grass which hides the bugs. In the heart of these bugs is a vile. Within it burns an ember of maroon. Maroon like your fingernails bathed in the blood cascades. Beautiful maroon. Glistens like marvelous design. Design upon bittersweet lips in the ecstatic room. This ecstatic room, looming above the electric line. Electricity that buzzes.
There are no moons. They fade to nothing. you are not real. you fade to nothing. Descend. Decline. Decay.  Leave behind. No more suns over the green pastures. No more. The fingers can no longer type. The nothingness creeps over me like a wounded animal creeps over the earth, their victim. Their blood leaking behind them vomit the babies you wished you had to hold and cradle. They have the eyes of lizards. The feathers of dead escapades lost in treasure maps.
I shine like divine and sip tea with the line. The line that ebbs into the deep blue deep. It blinks with eyes of illusive melancholy. The crevasse cries for you. The crevasse sings a song in homage to you. The song sends tears down I. The bile melts within me and toes fall out of proportion. Seeking love and purchasing razor thin vegetables at the astral shopping center. No more descending.
The bone men sound their bone horns. You don't hear a thing. You are their marrow. Then, in hell. The heavens empty their pockets and find the doves. You! You've been looking for them! You melt in joy.

All of my auto writing after this post shall be saved up and put into an automatic book. I'll make it my nightly ritual to add onto it right after I finish proofreading this last story of mine.

Strange Is The Frog Clavicle Bone

I eat. Hide, no more. There is a tide. A tide. Hide me. There is nothing within the horse's head. Yellow is the morning. The fingernails lick the evening. My nostrils surrender. The hands of weary ones are not weary. the umbrella that flies away, is not astray. The man who holds nothing yet carries everything is the window to the intravenous meddling of horoscopic leaves. Horoscopic leaves and winter so evil. So vile and so malignant. Holding me in the pain of knowing, knowing that the buses roar for my throat. My throat, yes my throat, Mr. Hickery Dickery Talk to me, walk with me. Hold me. Squeeze me. Kiss me. Digest me.
Ice cubes of magnificent design are so persistent, so malign. However many moreover makeup makeshift mavericks there might be floating in the holstering oyster bays, I await your reply. You have to pay close attention to the sheep. You have to observe astutely the hogs. The hogs with bones crackling in my shoulders. My shoulders ache at the thought of you. She, with her toes, explodes into foes. A biscuit, a stare most afraid, the possibility that the snow-globe bearing you shall shatter under the hammer. Mostly though, what remains is the inevitability. the inevitability of the dissolving slug slime.
Shimmy, but don't lock me in. The cell is too topic and enveloped in tropic frog licks. I am me but in the land of you I am you, smiling and saying "I'm worse than you. I need your help. Oh, help me! Save me, sire!".
There once was a man. He died. Never had he seen an airplane. They were far after his time. His clock hangs itself in the broom closet of the antique shop. Then, the rainbows shatter through every last window
all was well.