To Make Something.

The night slipped by slowly and unexpectedly; I forgot what to do with it and how. It's morning now and I've been making desperate attempts in my half-wakefulness to make something but I don't know what. I think I dreamed in words and so I woke in words. But my dreams are a blur of the night-past and gone- to not be found again but in more dreams. I'm certain I'll dream of last night and the way it slid by so easily, without effort or sound. I wonder if I did anything, wrote anything, and I imagine I must have because I woke from the evening with such perfect balance and ease, crawling back into words, into days, like that was the only place in the world where I belonged. Yet, at the same time, I recall the evening with the same balance of tone and time as if there, as well, I was the only place I'd ever been. And even now, I can't recall the thoughts which led me to these thoughts. I can't recall the events of the evening because it was so normal and easy. It just walked me, led me hand in hand, through it, depositing me in the morning, leaving me in the light. And in the light I saw everything I was in the dark but still didn't know why I ever was these things and moreover why I remained to be them, shining and proud, the sun shining on everything.

Soggy, Groggy.

I don't know how the words structure themselves inside my mind and I don't know how my mind structures itself inside the words. Not only have I discovered, in this state of soggy groggy nothingness, that I cannot function without a direct and daily transference of thoughts into words but I have also discovered that one can transfer anything to words and be somewhat satisfied in making something solid. I can think something that would have just been passing by but once I catch it and grab it I can examine where it came from and what it really is. I don't know where my words end and I begin. I don't know if I am what the words are or if the words are what I am but I know that I am empty without the words just as the words are empty without me. You find the most human parts of you by feeling things not by making them into words but you cannot understand what you felt or why it makes you all the more human until you put them into words. I live only in my mind and in my words and in my ragged slippers in the morning. They are as much a part of me as my feet and it is just as hard for me to imagine that one morning I will wake up and waddle about in them and they will fall apart as it is to imagine that one morning I will wake up and waddle about and my feet will fall apart. But both of these things are true and I can only wonder which will happen first.

Completion Falsifies, Apprehension Renews

What is written is not what it is, but what is in it. A thin sheet of paper covered with cramped, rushed letters, a thick, type-written manuscript, a novel enclosed in hard covers, a poem, an experiment, a work of profound brilliance... Completion falsifies, but apprehension renews. One must write to be read, to be taken apart after having built. In the days when literature was spoken, there was no pause in which the words could gel and form a thing that was not themselves, there was no publisher and no descriptions on back covers, there was only the long flow of new-formed being. We bind ourselves within our pages and someone must free us. The freeing is not only in the opening and the reading but it is in the soaking. I want to change the world I can't bear to live in. But who would care to free me, when no one even turns in the street to look at me?

Thick, Tight Fists

I have hidden from everything, in the late of evening, with my hands shoved deeply in my pockets and clenched in thick, tight fists. I am not angry; I am just holding on to what I can. The buildings flush by me and I don't see the faces that pass because my gaze is not a gaze but only an impression that I have eyes. I know that people, also with clenched fists, rush along but I feel no bond between us. I have never met anyone who excites my notion of things, who questions me or even understands enough to smile at my cowardice and dramatics. But then again, I cannot see people, I can only see through them.

Life Slips In....

I live each day many lives that I have never lived. I am constantly flung forward into possibility. Each look I exchange with another becomes a thousand complex relationships, each trouble I face multiplies into the thousand sorrows it might engender. Life slips in between my fantasies and my dreaming and I wonder if I am able to tell the difference.