Monday, August 13, 2012

Dear django django, please tango my mango. 

Play this sweet tits.  Last night I came home from work and sat in the dark for a half hour of silence. Without the Internet. Without my phone. Without a book, or a lusty thought. Without food, without water. No tv, just me on a couch. No pens.

I was dying for something, a thirsty ant in a desert of wanting, changing into a raven, pseudo suspended in the air, circling above a dry archipelago of sand and death. I hover under the sun, with one purpose.  

Below me appears a vast expanse of water,growing and twinkling gold. I change again into a rain drop, surrounded by my brothers as we move together to infinite enlightenment, readying ourselves to become one joined by all. 
 The plane changes and suddenly we are horses racing into the horizon. 

 We look to the future as our bodies hurl themselves ceaselessly into it, a hopeful horizon that holds change and peril in its infinite depth. , our existence is finite and we only have as much of that horizon as we allow ourselves, dropping to the sand from whence we came as our journey to the never reachable dissappearing point steals our years and asphixiates our muscles.  

(I am the problem, I am the ennui filled vessel. In order I become something more satisfactory, even just to painfully inch towards it, I would need to shatter and become empty and nothing simultaneously, in the past only being rebuilt to a )

We are the bugs in the trees, as the dawg by ze breeze suddenly becomes our sole focus as the perspective shifts to round. The woes and rigors of our own personal cuntathalon gets caught in the branches as we expand and become too heavy for the branches, weeping softly as they lower us back to earth.  

I am free of words, of fire and ice. No boys. My heart, although not intact is not unintact either, no bedside squirmishes, but if there were, (I would tell  myself, it's probably happened to snooki. And feel better, instantly.)

We regain awareness of ourselves in the pool, coming back to our bodies, suddenly becoming disjointed as the sun illuminates our slippery skins. The logistical existence we have turned into our aesthetic experience washes away as we swim, slightly apart from another, wanting to be together more than anything else.

^£ We.