#es2017

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I am, mostly, made up of seemingly infinite wandering strands.

Stretching in all directions, on a mission to weave themselves into the sun without hands.

I am a sunset. The output of all those brilliant strings, those glimmering things.

Spreading out beyond themselves, as far as the eye can see, hoping to catch reasoning.

A web of purpose sewn by the deepest roots of my core. 

Such a gentle and deliberate force to push my relentless curiosity to always question more.

Sometimes thoughts can feel like sabotage. The brain wreaking havoc on itself.

A necessity for mastering the art of suffrage I suppose.

Because beyond suffrage lies a more divine recollection of what really has substance, significance, and serendipity. Anything with the spirit of the essence of life.

Often just soaking up all your suffering can rehydrate the soul and replenish humility.

The hardships we endure are pivotal testaments to what it means to appreciate all your working limbs and the major organs that function without effort so that you can get by another day.

Be on your way amongst the circumstance. Disregard any boxes marked as victory as authentic victory can’t be contained by four walls. Those boxes are as empty as all your material possessions.

Not one bit of meaning you can roll around in your physical hands can be restrained by misconstrued boxes. Tis only deception, forever repeating. 

The way tombstones litter a cemetery, boxes wrapped up that look too good to be true are cautionary markings that perhaps only nothingness is on the other side. That even existence itself is fleeting.

A reminder that our entire universe itself is not infinite.

And to be reminded that maybe all there is to me may be just an arm and a leg. Just an open hand, a mouth, and a mind that can beg.

Breaks in this intrepid road I’m walking on that I assume might lead me to my monuments.

Supposing there even is a somewhere out there made only for me. Just mine.

And there are still deep tears in the fabric of my understanding.

And in those gasps for air we call words and those grasps for purpose we call time,

Chaos is preventing the universe from allowing itself to rewind.

I have always been this restless. Even as a child.

But being a kid meant unrelenting. Our bellies were full of hunger for the world

And our curiosities were free to run wild.

I used to hop fences in the middle of the night.

To sneak through my neighbors back yards while the rest of the world was sleeping.

So that I could find some silent and secret place to lie.

Simply to lose myself completely, staring blankly back at all the darkness of the sky.

And then suddenly there were all of these so-called life lessons we’re all meant to learn.

They just one day, some any old day, caught up to me.

Always hidden in plain sight, disguised in the form of questions, of connections, and misconceptions.

And yet they always felt like any and every possible reality.

Throwing rocks through my windows just as often as they’d toss fresh roses at my feet.

Both unforgivingly vicious and unconditionally sweet.

There have also been people like that too, you know?

Like rubber bands around a hammer.

Appearing to be flexible but never possible to be bent.

Like an ex-lover you still miss to this day but now this person is your landlord,

only showing up at your door once a month when it’s time to collect the rent.

I had to teach myself how to be independent.

So, I learned to take a handful of grass and how to make me a rope.

All to save myself from drowning while I still learn how to take a tree branch and build myself a boat.

And for the myriad of all the nots and knots I come across,

well I now know I know how to make those too.

So somewhere in all the cracks, the breaks, and the tears,

A fate that had already written itself out a long long time ago was doing exactly what it always does…

Creating all the precious stories it also someday demolishes.

Never for a purpose, but only ever just because.

I am confounded. I am murky.

The blood of my beliefs boils over.

My spirit jailed within this glass bottle.

All my contentment at war with my mercenaries 

Coming together just before dawn

To remind me of what I have yet to become.

I am all of the nobody’s I could have ever hoped to be.

And today, still not the day I find myself.

The bones of my fingers stay tangled. Permanently crossed.

Still holding my breath

Is this mirage just urgency, inundated by the defiant? Reliant as it unwinds

I wept at the feet of a patriarch. Overwhelmed by my mercurial mind. 

Full of the precious and the visceral. Not quite cut from the cloth of his kind.

This inquisitive coercion towards the vigilant leaks light into my pervious dreams. A predecessor to a benevolence 

And in his elegance

Is illusive to my beloved copasetic 

Or so it particularly seems.

So soft a gallant glance at words...still resting gently on your tongue.

All this vastness, all this blackness. All this bewildering, all this becoming.

Sitting silent upon a stoic thumb.

Is this restlessness self-implicated? Does it ensue some maniacal charm?

Or does my longing become reciprocated 

With the suggestion to question all that lies beneath the lengths of my arms?

And if so, who sold you this?

The illusions of the boundaries of man.

My fears instead trekking stardust like sand.

My emptiness, extraterrestrial, is off to marvel the cosmic splendor of some far off distant land.

So I suppose the only thing we really have is our cluelessness and it is absolutely everything to us.

We belong to it the way every wave belongs to the sea.

Unrelenting and abrupt. Open wide then rushing shut.

Pursuing a promising purveyor. Unriddled. Untainted. Untouched.

Declaring in all totality that she shall be a goddess