I do feel so awfully alone when I’m like this. A few decades to reflect on and you’re suddenly looking back and realizing how many friends you went through, how many people you cast off, and how few of them you still have to talk to. Reaching out into the void like this is really all I have now in hopes that someone out there will pick up on my feelings and tell me they understand. I am tired of people saying” it’s ok” though, it’s such a relative word; nothing is “ok” if everything is so interdependent on one another; and certainly nothing is “ok” about this situation. I don’t feel human at all, I feel like what a human looking in a mirror watching what another human feels like. I’m floating. Existing. All concentrated on the part of you where your glasses sit, just observing. In a quest to find my missing half, I have both halves but no glue.

The aesthetic and vibes match, thanks for the 7 hour wait. Glad my heart could take it

Time and form have ceased just before the winter solstice.

Time has not yet passed to allow us to go back towards the long-winded, sun-soaked day, so instead the earth hardens, breaks, and shatters it’s formality with pieces of civilization adrift on a barren plane.

Words are monitored carefully for feelings by prying eyes like the eagle who is watching the bear who is watching for bees who cannot contain their constant buzzing, working only for the production of honey and the pleasure of the queen and her conquest.

But alas, it is unfair to put such a burden as our own on animals whose only purpose is to survive for the sake of survival rather than our own reaching for grotesque vanity caused by an imposed naievity brought upon us by those reaching for grotesque control over the will of others more fortunate than themselves.

And so twisted are the ways of man that if a member of its party reaches enlightenment of their own accord and seeks to extend his hand then they are garunteed to be shunned by the majority and beloved by the minority thus deepening the cyclical nature of un-nature.

Only footnotes in a passage of a book that is out of print.

Still others suffer in silence as their minds detach from their very body and drift till one day they awake alone in a field of missed opportunity; so barren is this world that those standing on the edge of the field cannot make out what the scarecrow like structure in the middle is.

Does the rolling fog cloud their judgement that this ‘creature’ too is human, or does the noise it stirs up with the sporadic beating of its pots and pans frighten the ones who put it there so much so that they leave it in the field to warn passers-by that this is their fate for leaving their dwellings?

Only one day a year do the scarecrow creatures blend in with the others in ‘costume’ to think that perhaps the other 364 ¼ days of hysteria have merit to them and that the reality of it all seems awfully bright next to the orange hue of lit camp fires.

But like a strong gust of wind on a frosted plane the candle light dies out and the real costume is put back on, along with the weight of the collar and leash and chains that are hidden by pressed collars, buttoned cuffs, and hemmed seams.

Now sealed off and hidden away inside concrete domes of false formalities the thoughts of that orange flame re-emerge; now small and blue and burning slowly, the heat boils the water while the frogs sit unaware of their predicament.

Suddenly the wind picks up, and the sea churns, and the volcanos erupt filling the sky with blackness and all is chaos on the edge of our world.

But the earth stays silent; the animals take their final breath and the people die curled up in their beds, the scarecrow deteriorates and the books turn to dust in vacant libraries, the wind dies down and the sea calms, the volcano quits spewing and the blackness clears, and all that is left is the cold, hard earth of an untilled field.

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