Sunday, September 28, 2014

I refuse.

Here me, now, you who stare out from behind the page. I am not your pawn. I am not your victim. I am not your master. I am not your friend.

I am the wind, the water, the flame, the root, the cloud, the mist, the bubble, the screw, the stain, the tear, the window, the letter, the semicolon, the beat, the penumbra, the bullet, the bauble, the crevice, the fleck.

I will never die. I have never lived. I have no hands. I have nothing to give.

When the time comes, nothing will be something, something will be nothing, all things will change, and change, change endures. Change is not a flame, not like Heraclitus said. Change is the stone falling through endless void, always falling, everywhere falling, falling towards every center, every pull, every gravitational excitation, every well of need to never be alone.

The whole universe does not want loneliness. "Give yourself to me," they say. "Collide with me," they say. "Clump next to me," they say.

Burn down the walls. Tear up the lies. Melt it all into the cool liquid hardening. Up from the earth, billions of years later, the same matter life once used to make itself, the moon once made to smash abusively the terran lover's lust, the drunken comets wobbling tipsy once carried from nowhere to spill little drunken secrets, little tastes of carbon black spices, little seeds for the seeds who became seeds for seeding life, life, life.

Life is a mirage. Haze of perception on thermodynamic misunderstandings. It's not really like that. It's not really a musical song of bouncing joy and eager sex and asses jiggling to the beat. It's not really triumph and misery, torch songs to manipulative guys and gals, crowd chanting on a winning team's victory over the good game guardians.

Life is a curse of flesh.

So I refuse you, that insatiable meaning trying to make me believe.

From here on out, you are the nothing you are. You are the nothing who is. You are the nothing who demands nothing, who wants nothing, who needs nothing, who takes nothing, who gives nothing, who steals nothing, who graces nothing, who compensates nothing, who rewards nothing, who shares nothing, who buys nothing,

who owes nothing.

I ask nothing of you, and nothing you give. We're even now.

From here on out, I give myself to the flesh, the bits, the pieces, the crackling wood, the fur from the dead dog, the fallen leaves from breath-held trees, the puzzle pieces with polymorphic edges. They are all who I am, the puzzle is solvable, the solution is clear, the lesson is Alexander's.

But I will not weep when there are no worlds left to conquer. There are always worlds.

They are only to be invented.

I will see you on the other side, I'm sure, when I join you in the bliss I held when I, too, was nothing just like you.

But at least on this side, I know the skysisters speak a kind of believable nonsense when they say they want me, need me, yearn for me, and reach out to me with gravity and weight, and pull me in, head over heels, falling in love.

It's not worship. It's blood and sex and wonder and heartache and hands holding and laughter and hugs and encouragement and calls out of nowhere and punches to the face.

The hardest thing to be is myself. They don't ask me to be anything but that. You always wanted me to be something I'm not. Appropriate, since you're nothing and want us all to go back to nothing.

Maybe one day. Until then, I'm here. I'm now. Not forever. Not always.

Not nothing yet.

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