Somehow, I am a box, the box itself, opened and watching one after another of a torrential stormy land unfold and reveal itself.
Layer upon layer of history and mystery and truths and untruths, all intermingled and hung out to dry.
I stumble, some eyes-wide-open girl, pushing through the tangible thoughts.
Trudging in and out of random memories and formulations.
Much like a computer brought to life; only with raw emotion and temperament, and pain.
I am both the spectator, watching, and the participant, dreading.
Meandering through what has passed, what might be, and what is to come.
Entering a premonition-dimension all whitewashed across the interior of my reckoning.
An entity wrapped inside, opening with one quick stroke to the ‘what-of-me?’
I intake, reaching untimely conclusions at rapid speeds, left twirling in afterthought and apprehension.
And behind this beyond is yet another broken voice screaming my demise: some torn-out, abandoned demon attempting to sliver its way back in.
And still another, quite broken in its proclaimed ‘un-brokeness,’ quivers nearby, judging each string of thought.
At times I am that mirror facing that mirror, reaching into infinity, my limit of selflessness limitless.
Confusion brought upon confusion, interruption placating interruption, each theory and circumstance trying to predicate the next.
A judge. A jury. An entire assembly of multiple communes all gathered in a singular speck.
And all at once there is this nowhere, and I am lost, drowning in what seems to be logic and feasible steps to the opposite of entrance.
Only each way pulls further. Again, and again, fooling me into thinking it’s a truth, the accurate avenue of escape.
But what am I running from?
Am I so predisposition for analysis that I am predisposed to slipping beyond reality?
What are these propelling thoughts that seem as comforting friend set about as offered confidant, when in actuality they be but bitter tastes, gathered entities, scattered brain-firings awakening prospect after prospect after prospect?
I cannot untie myself from this pain; I am no escape artist.
I am but a trepid flame doused with fuel after fuel, in all forms, to arouse the dragon-centered-heart.
I am opened and set apart and made to bleed out, continually abandoned.
Help is nowhere and everywhere; and that is where the terror sets spindly claw in motion.
Straight out, in the thought that nowhere in the thought is a resolution.
In the thought that each inching perceived as somehow forward is indeed illusion of progress.
That in fact, I am no further now than before, only set upon differing landscape, created by yet another skewed view.
I am where I set out to look.
My angle determines my outlook; my perching point, the end result.
And yet, point after point, I still gather my self upon, to collect the data set forth, in hopes of knowing what is.
And point after point fails me.
Bending, misshapen forms retreating and becoming foundation no more.
The naught of everything evaporating before these wearied wandering eyes.
And so it is, full circle, this numbing point…
I am endless in this reasoning and there is no resolution where thought breathes.
I am but a buttered lady, slipping through the spokes of motion.
I am that honeydew drop immersed in the morning light and made as vapor for the taking.
Everywhere abounds insight and happenings.
Yet nothing ends.
And all is left as forgery revealed; mysterious markings of what would be masterpieces; only they are devalued in the discovery of falsehood.
2 thoughts on “545: The Numbing Point”
This way only heroin is the answer , or somethin stronger . Believe you me ,I know. But maybe…. not the destination , is the answer , just the , gettin there …
just .. be .