lmnopoeia

So this is thirty. On first impression it feels much like the loneliness of 29; or 19 for that matter. And when the loneliness subsides the boredom sets in. But this is nothing new, nothing I haven’t learnt how to deal with – with long walks, sad songs, or stupid amounts of alcohol.

And I’ve grown used to this.

Nothing is worth having if it wasn’t hard to get. So I keep my contentment dangling on a string. Just beyond my grasp; in all my hopes of an abstract freedom, in all my dreams of traveling to find it.

One thing is new, at this tender age of thirty. I find myself facing the abyss, hearing the call to arms. If I don’t find my way now will I spend another twenty years looking? And the terror of a middle-aged man with the dreams of a teenager keeps me frozen to my bed – struggling with the angst of my inaction and my inactions.

But in the end nothing’s new.

These thoughts are so familiar, this lethargy reminiscent. I’ve had half my life to learn how to hone my coping skills. I can now trap these thoughts between fourty-seven layers of paint, or in the half-tones that form between the automatic cross-hatched strokes in the contours of a nude woman. Or I can whisper some conscious constructions as my fingers stroke emotions my guitar’s voice isn’t too weak to sing.

And the emotions I trap in my art crystallize. Turn to diamonds that sparkle in the dreams I have where my mythologies make me king. But the diamonds loose their glitter because of the tiny fissures formed by pressure from within. And in that half sleep – when light is no longer reflected – I find my self twitching. Running. Running away from fractured diamonds. Or towards the next ones I will create.

So here I am again, with you, my sweetest friend – reciting more half-truths of perfect abstractions and then burning the energy it gives me until I’m pale, lethargic and depressed.

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Fortified supplements of enriched uranium. I feel you seeping through me. Tell me where you’re standing and I’ll come find you. Tell me what you see.

Tell me what you see.

(I’ve seen this five hundred million times and it still looks dead to me)

I’m in a vacuum; when I scream I make no sound and my sense of smell… what the hell is it for. I travel at the speed of light until I collide with myself. And when I do, I fall out of existence. Annihilation is a weak description. I want to feel your weak nuclear force.

but my desires are automatic and they tend towards chaos.

If I categorize the things I know their absolute value becomes unknown; and I’m told the root of my square is negative.

But that’s ok because I cast no shadow and as I travel I displace only temptation; and sometimes time. My inspiration comes from you, but I am not free, nor radical.

My psyche succumbs to you and my psychology dreams in colors inspired by you. But that’s not who I am, that’s just my body playing tricks on me.

If I was to really take apart my physiology I’d find the proteins I’d inhaled while standing near you; And I smell them now, though I’m still in this vacuum.

I twiddle my thumbs as I contemplate infinity and I shake my head so slow it’s hard to see. If you could only find the time, you’d solve many of life’s mysteries. Like why it’s hard to find the time to solve life’s mysteries. And when you do you’d be ironing out my sense of irony.

Life cannot exist in a vacuum, yet here I am. I have no future, only a destiny; it’s pre-determined by my determination and completely dependent on my independence.

And from a distance, your quanta affect me.

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