There’s overcast, that blasé river, flowing into flatness;
whereat, this sullen tide, ebbing close by, this terrible entity. It pauses
life, forbidding prose, this reminder of déjàvu. I’ve been here: pacing the
unconscious, awaiting my arrival, and maintaining blankness; this earth of
daughters, as partial to wisdom, this light-fire within an apple; to court such
majesty, while standing still, as to surf that inner character. There’s neither
flame nor water—nor seeds nor flowers—only a vast space. I wonder of reason,
her full extent—somewhere that void of nothingness. They call it peace—this
lack of activity, when neither hell nor heaven visits; but spirit is
there—surveying temperaments, at ease with this probing space; to have that
feeling, while gripping at an inkling, motivated through actions; for the foot
must move, as to engage motion, and then there’s jogging; that flight to sea,
to witness such tears—that moment of deep appreciation; to wrestle this force,
this visitor of times, touching this taste of prose. It’s neither sorrow nor
ebb—but this point zero, as to wait for either a positive or a negative one: it
seems so low, dragging this metaphor, as we hope for a solid six; that axis of
temperaments, as to seesaw but a little, if merely to feel this life; but never
this feeling, as leaning towards sadness, but refusing to trespass. It resists
sleep, a neighbor’s imposition, at once a force of wakefulness; that
concentration, as searching for eyes, that delicate pendulum; for it often
slants, either for or against joy, while coloring with bold and thick lines;
this thin pressing, looming as to sing, while posing something imminent. It
appears an entity, and semi-dramatic, this intimate subtlety. It lives with
wings, arriving during resting hours, as to harass those particles of
sunlight. I spark a clove, refusing to
buy liquor, as not to form a habit; wherewith, are miniature ghosts, and long
irritations, as to further insights; this nature of prose, as hoping to reach
that one capable of a sudden shift; that need for contrast, as to outwit
depression, as to outwit joy’s hiding place. It’s more a project, as to enter
the public, peering at this angular web. It’s geometric, but mainly organic,
this uneven war. If to want for love, we chase it; if to want for food, we seek
it; but to want for more than space, at this science of mind, we occupy
ourselves until it pops.
