I live in my head, huddled around campfires on the edge of a lake somewhere South. I live with a bead of perspiration perpetually gliding smooth down the back of my neck across baby hairs that tickle my entire body into spastic jumps that feel like orgasms. I live for real smiles. I live without the fear of losing you to hurricanes or thunderstorms or busses on the wrong side of the street. I live how it’s meant to be, how you make things in your head more real than touch to pass the bad times by. I live with these people -these flawed, cruel, deflated people every day and I know they are the best of their lot – but I want to be better. I want to stare my fear of curving lines into its spinning face and say that “straight lines build houses, and I want a home”. I scare easily but I am determined to adopt change, fluidity, and acceptance into my daily bread.
I know some great people that have graced this earth. This Earth.
My earth – the same one I sleep 6 feet above, the same one that furnishes our dreams and gives us reasons to believe in the miracle that’s around us – is a breeding ground for caring. It is compassionate and stern and forgiving. If we do not live together, then we will die alone.
I live in my head, huddled around a campfire on the edge of a lake somewhere South – humming a song many people know the rhythm of and sing in their heads as they’re slowly planning their deaths. I’m here to tell them the meaning of the rhythm that keeps their brains beating. I’m here to tell them that they’ve got it all wrong; it wasn’t meant to be like this. It wasn’t meant to be clocks ticking down to manifestos of freedom. We have no Clocks. We have only Now. Only here. Only ourselves and This Earth.
And the same campfires that you can see from a lake away, somewhere South.