On swollen, over-worked, untreated feet, I am approaching a new end. The edge. The ledge we all fall off in our sleep. Pray to sandmen and fairy queens, but none of these come to terms with what’s wrong inside.
The connections we plug into each other are fake, false, and not worth the light they shed.
The community and family is dead.
Your god is weeping in a bad seat back row of a church where you and your’s no longer go. Have you prayed for these seeds, this meal, your feelings today?
The wild knows us better than we know ourselves. A single wingtip made of feathers covered in dust is realer than our strucutres made of sand and oil, of spit and blood, of the tears we shed over our brothers and sisters and mother’s father’s heads. Over the over-lived and under-dead.
Are you coming apart at the seams? This seems reasonable, my friend.
Are you coming unglued unstuck, under-tucked from the life you were trying to live, my friend?
We are pieces of a greater puzzle that was blown apart with weapons fashioned to destory our interactions and our concepts of the context that we once were supposed to remember that we had.
Have you ever seen the jungle or feared for your life in the winter snow that came too early and there was no way out and no way to know and no warmth in the dead of it to go back home to?
We sleep on the backs of others we can never know. Eat food from hands who have grown so distant even wires and chains and shackles of the future don’t keep us in touch anymore. We have outgrown the world, and in doing so, over-grown our hearts with tripe tribulations that don’t amount to much.
We cry because we are alone.
But our sleep is founded solely in this comforting fact, so swallow your tears and sleep well tonight.
The night only ever comes in half-light and we won’t grow tired of it, now.
We only cease to grow when we are old enough to die.
For my part, I’m a happy and productive member of the things I hate.
I hope, you too, can get along just fine.
We won’t see anything on the other side.