Monday 2:48pm

unbroken speech,

you tricked me on shaky ground

____Rusty Nails, Moderat

In The Flowers, mikecole

her office is full of colour. mostly purple. some pink. three couches, striped pink and purple. i know this for a fact: when you fall in love with the colour pink (or purple), you fall hard. it's an obsession. Wagner is the same. you don't listen to Wagner, you adore him. you don't just like the colour pink/purple, you try to absorb it.

she's nice. pinkish knit sweater. blonde hair. f*ck, how many times have i been through this in the last ten years? she smiles.

"it must be hard to always be trying to escape yourself?"

"yes! that's it exactly.

[she nods]

have you read the Orestes?"

"uhm... no, ... what is that?"

"Euripides?
[she gives an uncertain look]

it's... uhm... it'sabookdonworryboutit."

we talk about thoughts. the random-thought-generating-machine in my head somewhere. synthesizes thoughts out of the blue. maybe it's my subconscious. who knows. it's there. takes three morsels of air (it steals breath from my lungs), stitches it into a thread of memory, kisses it one last time, and smiles deleriously as it sends it off. i recieve it like a sharp stab of beauty and pain. twitch. my thoughts are related to feelings. it's messy. i nod. i'm not trying to impress her, so i speak normally, i say what i mean. in other words, i use the words that are most accurate. equanimity. inexorable. words like that. i've learnt recently that in most day-to-day conversations, it's best to not speak accurately.

she smiles. we'll sort it out, ok? [i nod]. i can't lie, i do feel better.


*___*___*

a week ago, in a dream, i dreamt i awoke from my sleep, it was morning. the air had perhaps grown viscous. i had trouble sucking in breath. i inhaled, i was filled with something foreign. not air. it was thick and incredible. the hairs of dandelions. rose petals. it move throughout me. like a silk tie slipping into my capillaries. my chest was a marble tree. i gasped. glass houses. once-were-clouds. the snow in Hamburg. white ceramic. bed sheets. trasparent tulips dreaming their way througout me. a river worth of wetness. a fresh cold- it was sunrise. i had inhaled the start of a new thing. the Introit. i believed i was a pearl. the moon in third person. hindsight. vanilla icecream. tinsel. the white catepillar i kept in a jar for a week when i was 6. jogging in the rain. i gasped and heaved. empty. completely full of nothing. and nothing is full of soo much. soo many miracles.

"but you know Ash, it's when you have nothing, when you have nothing at all, and you pray... those words have soo much meaning. soo much sincerity. and when everything's fine... it's just... a thing you do."


*___*___*

my jeans are new. lighblue. the colour of sky. they're tight. soo it feels like i am enveloped in it. any moment now i'll ascend. my sweater is a white woolen knit. i am a cloud too.


*___*___*

coffee has clouds in it. music is just air.
to the best of my knowledge, my body is comprised of liquified geraniums, incoherent dreams, yearnings fragile as baby's hands. inside i am dark- i know this because the colours i see when i close my eyes are. i am told i am full of organs. i think i am full of the giant squid that live at the dark bottom of far-off oceans that pirates would be scared of.

i think life is a cape. surrounded on all sides by extraordinary things words are too ordinary to describe. i think life is the exception to the rule. like love. like gravity. like water. like first kisses. like seeing satellites when you're looking for shooting stars. like inspiration- which never happens supposedly but always does. to someone. somewhere. i think happiness is a dream of myself i'll one day realize was always true(est). i am troubled. but i believe in magic. i know myself to be unimportant when compared to mountains. trees are soo humble. i am not done slamming myself up against Monday afternoons. up against cinema screens. the last lines of books. i am not done staring at lips thinking now? __now? _now? now? i am not done questioning every second's motives. kicking every rock just to be sure. staring at every greenlight twice- just to be sure. i'm not done smiling at people in case they smile back.

paintings are single strokes at a time. your favourite sentence just words strung together. the name you call when you're lonely just made of letters. shapes. sounds. atoms.

experience is just a scroll. laundry can be done at anytime.

when i sleep i am everywhere. i am scared of morning everyday.

i am not done poking my soul to make it speak its mind. i am not done slapping my thoughts. i am not done evoking my hands to play. i am not done looking.

i hate this feel-good emotional hippie-crap:
but i am not done discovering the best ways to be human.
i am not done discovering miracles.
i am not done gleaning life's best corners.
i am not done finding the-best-song-ever.
and i'm certainly not done singing it at the top of my lungs while driving the stupidest car in the world.

(god help me with the rest(consequences))