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Essays Stories

The Floor is LAVA.

Its funny, they are funny. Always perplexed at life so they were always trying to breath it anew. With a new book, with a new feeling or a new idea, always projecting or creating something, a reflection of what they saw but never what they were. Never really being themselves because they thought there was no self, they were a no body. A body projected into being something, when in reality- they were nothing.

I could not understand this.

 Although I had known them, loved them, helped them since they were young; they were always becoming something new although they stayed the same in a peculiar manner. A manner that left our relationship estranged but I was longing to be with them, anxious to meet them, longing to know them. It could be scary to be alone with them; they always gave you their full attention. Until their mind wondered away and they would get obsessed with a new feeling, flowing away without a moments glance. They did not waste their time. It was all they thought they had.

 It was one of the reasons why I loved them, one the reasons that made them special. I had a sneaking suspicion that they were always special. Special in the kind of way that gets you sent to a new school. A special our mum’s stubborn manner, would not bend too, a special that meant they could not be contained or understood in ways that tradition taught you. A special that mum could not handle, but loved with the rebellious urgency as if was her own self. She always called us her triangle. Her support, her life force, her reason for living and here we were drifting- fading-breaking. All of the warnings that were given to our young bodies were now forgotten. Memories that felt similar to heavy rain on broken bark. They were her daughter, although the silence that existed between them had separated us into islands.

They were omitted, although they were always prayed for.

We were all her children, a mark similar to branding. Her triangle.  It was all we heard when we were growing up and they were the last piece. The final line that made us complete, without them we were bursting connections that went in whatever direction you were standing.

We needed to protect and guide them but somehow they ended up with all the bruises, and jagged cuts of life that we all wielded. They seemed to wear theirs proudly.

“ I know you can speak, SPEAK. If you don’t speak they will send you to a special school. Speak.”

  Mum would recite this memory, often, and always with a smile, with a loving pride at the capability of their daughter and her own foresight. That Monday they went to school and spoke to their teachers and fellow classmates, for the first time. With a few words at first and then a whisper and then they grew tired and gained the confidence to say, “You have to listen to me, really well, because I don’t speak so good.” They would say this stuttering and biting their inner mouth; leaning towards the persons ear as if they could reach their mind, the closer they leaned. They soon learnt this was not the case. That people did not listen. Even with words, they could be ignored and left unheard and forgotten. They were 7.

“ I do not like to speak but I am good at it. They made me good at it. They made me learn how to use my voice. They taught me that silence was a privilege that few had.” They said this regretfully; they hated to speak and hated to be seen but they always stood out in the crowd. Their mid length locks covered in brightly coloured beads and shells, their yellow eyeliner radiating against their chocolate brown skin. Their sky blue eyelashes blinking with an undivided attention that kept all eyes moving with them.  This is why they often understood all their gifts as a dutiful curse. They were awkward and always lost in their mind, finding new trap doors with every moment. The only constant in their life was their body, their home. Like all homes the labour and pain that it took to make it hospitable was lost on all those who did not live there. The décor was often appreciated but the messy rooms were only for a few to see. Very few people took the time to explore and very few people were willing to pay the entry fee.

It pained them greatly. A clown with a large tent to fill but no regular circus acts to perform. No guests.

“ I love them, I love them so much, that I can’t be around them all the time.”  

For them, this made complete sense; they said this to me just before they left for Israel again. Their blue and pink flowery backpack towering over their head, dwarfing them like the skyscrapers they despised so much. Their new shell would be their only companion for the next four years. They would grow into it. Allowing it to become a living excuse to never look back.

I could never convince them to stay, it was never a possibility and thus I never tried. It was their ‘condition’. To express rather than to impress, to be rather than to seem, a ‘ condition’ that left them isolated from the rest of world. A ‘ condition’ that left them sitting in the desert for 9 months, a ‘ condition’ that meant they were never here.

    “ I am in love, I am in love, I’m in love. The wind, the silence, pure silence. Everything moves without a sound, I am the loudest thing around and thus I make no noise. The wind howls and the stars shine and the moon, oh my god the moon. When it’s full, everything becomes light, everything is alight I am alive.”

Their face becomes so animated with joy that they appear like their younger self, pony tails swinging, braids newly done. Their smile inching higher and higher into their eyes, until they are squinting. A bubbling child that always got in trouble for being exactly what they are now.

They were a beautiful mess, my beautiful mess, a clown dressed in a rainbow costume.  A clown that dressed for no one but themselves. It took years for me to see the crystalized tears on their face, to see their pain.

“ I miss it, I miss it everyday.”

They grit their teeth in the way that shows that they are holding back a mountain of words and a forest of feelings. It feels unreal to see them like this, to see them here. They are so assessable but always drifting. When they spoke of the desert, I could see they were still there. Fading into the sun. They did not come back for me.

They did not miss us. They loved us.

They simply had things to do now. Being here was one of them. They would leave soon and I will be back to reminiscing the existence of my own blood. 

  They are sitting crossed legged on the grass, their back is bent to the arch of the tree; their arms wrapped awkwardly around the base of trunk. Their face turned up towards the branches, peering further and further into the depths of their isolation. We are taking the afternoon to sit in Hampstead Heath, their favourite park in London, for its vast size and the fact that it was impossible to find anyone here. We are alone and we will stay like this until sunset. Until the day fades and I meet my love, and they go somewhere I will not visit.

We sit with all the necessary goodies of a summer day, crisps, juice, humus and bread. The devils food, “because you can’t stop eating it. I ate so much of it when I was on the road. Sometimes it was all I ate, all I could afford and I never grew tired of it, the devil’s food.”  

They smile gritting their teeth and shrugging their shoulders. “ YOLO”

They always said it but never ironically. For them it was a matter of fact, YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE. Their recklessness and inhabitation of this idea scared everyone who loved them. They lived by the notion that they had their body for a short time, so they felt forced to enjoy it, the best way they knew how. Recklessly and honestly, they felt obligated to this simple statement. YOU only lived once. They did not want shame, they did not want to apologise and they did not believe in turning back. Their was no back for them, their memories lived in the future.

“ Go forward, the only way is forward.”

 They would often point their hands to the sky and run on the spot, as if one jump forward was flying.

I admired them, I admired how they did whatever they wanted and could be whomever they wanted no matter the cost, no matter the price. The price of their silence was too heavy; inherited shame had broken their legs and created stumps that had healed into moss covered hoofs. They run wildly through the forest of time gathering new friends and dreams but never losing sight of home. I could not decide if this was for the best. They had caused destruction and tore up the ground; revealing the lava beneath our feet. There was no bridge to cross and no way I could get to them. They somehow always seemed to find their way onto my island and bring love masqueraded as upheaval.

They were standing alone. I was their only lifeline and I was drifting further away.  We were all scared of the fire beneath our feet. I learnt long ago that they could swim in it; they said they were born in it.

They were alone in it.  

“What else am I meant to do, be someone else, do something else, act like its okay, that it does not matter? They don’t see me, they don’t see themselves and I have lived too long in a house with no mirrors. Lesson learnt, lesson learnt!”

They always repeated this with a grave disposition, elongating the final repetition on their tongue and stretching their face like elastic to show me how serious they were. Their eyes stern for only second until they were laughing again, just long enough for me to see, that they were tired of the joke that was been played.  

Everything was a lesson. We were taught to listen to our elders and they independently learnt that everyone would teach BUT not everyone listened. All lessons leave a scar and they had too many scars to count. They swear that their scars were worth it, but they also believed and paid attention to the gaping wound, that we often ignored.

They ignored responsibilities and all outcomes that came from their reckless inhibition to claim life by all its infinite sides.

“Do you bo bo- do you!” But doing me was being here. They knew this and they thanked me for it, grateful for me, but glad it was not their place. That their condition kept them on the road, meeting, loving new people whereas mine kept me here, loving our home.  

Three months, under the same roof, eating the same food, watching the same films, all where we grew up. They needed to come to terms with this space, with their fear and I needed them here, I needed the support. I wanted the support; I wanted them.

Sisterhood.

 They would run away throughout the long summer days. Finding trees to hide under and books to read. Mum always screaming for them to hurry back and put on shoes, to eat food and to stay clean but they had all they needed.  A book and some shade, with Alice they were complete. Lost in a land where down was up and up was down, where questions were scary to those with a crown. Where things disappeared with a smile but returned to bring destruction to the now. They took Wonderland out from the library every week and they still carry it with them wherever they go. They never wanted to forget where they had been but they only wanted to talk about where we were going. How we could heal the past and create a new future, better than what had occurred and more than what could be imagined.  

“How is your heart? How are you growing, feeling knowing, understanding?” The chorus of their question remained the same but they always had a new verse, a new rhythm to dance too. Dreams, love and light were their favourite themes, an infuriating conversationalist when angry but a flood of relief when overwhelmed or sad. Their hands were clasped in their lap after organising their crystals on their knees, and along their upper thighs, they were smiling at everything that came but saddened by everything that was.

They always had so many questions; and so little time. They would wreck and destroy and dream up a blueprint with you only to leave before the construction. They failed to understand how much I wanted to hear their questions, to share sister time. I wanted to share my life with them but I always got snippets of care, like everyone else.

They paid close attention to my ‘condition’ and made me laugh at the ridiculousness of my fears. They would always listen. I knew this but I wanted the security of their presence. I wanted their smile.

“ You are infinity, you are beautiful, you are my sister and I love you, I will always love you and come and visit me, come, we will eat ice cream and wonder around. It will be good”

“ Everything is now, be now, be your sound, be true, I am here for you.”

It was infinity or nothing. On or off, beyond the reaches of time, there was a space and they willed it alive with every breath. They willed it with their fullest heart. My sister. 

They are smiling at me, waiting patiently for me to speak. Their face radiating a symphony of colours; like an alien anticipating abduction. Every feature a different construction of my own body, different forms but kindred selves.  I could see it all in their new orange- coloured glasses. I could see myself; I could see their brown eyes staring down at me from the heavens of their self-constructed mind.

They loved me and I loved them. I am still getting used to all the other additions that I did not know when we growing up, that our family had no space for, that our family had left them for. Their queerness, their reckless inhibition, their need to always say what was on their mind and their rejection of tradition. They had no regrets but their way of life had caused a lake of fire and they believed that we needed to learn how to cross it. That there was something better on the other side. 

We were blooming in the summer heat, especially now our roots could nourish each other’s thirst.   They were beautiful and would always be mine but they had given themselves to the world.

The reality of life was that they were always going but always here. They were named day for a reason and although it changes form it never disappears.

My sister, a being born to adhere to the discipline of never giving into fear, not even to our family name or shame.  They were beautiful but they did not play this earthly game. They were all loyalty but no patience. I loved them.

 We gathered our things and said goodbye to the sun, walking into the woods holding each other’s hands but going separate ways. Singing a song of unity.

Photography by Mehdi Iromlou and Dino Hubacher

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Dreams are for the few

The moment she spoke to him, he left the room. He would not listen. He could not listen. What would he listen to? Her furious nature needed care and patience and he wished for speed. Wishes were often like this, spells and false magic men had deceived the masses into believing that dreams came true in moments of understanding when in reality, they came through the imagination of change. Change sat at the edge of understanding and thus the walk over was steadily and frequently avoided.

He turned his back. Beauty faced his shoulders in the perpendicular nature of seeing your own back in the mirror, he stared knowingly, imagining where his wings would go and contemplating the depths of the sky. He wanted quick answers; he wanted light bursting from the shadow, when he was the shadow bursting into light. She followed him to the starting point, the place where all decisions were made and waited- her voice locked into the movement of his response. Her exquisite venom burning beneath his feet, urging him to open his mouth, to close his eyes and spread his back in the perpendicular parallel of flight he wanted.  When he did, he would know that wishes were not for the light-hearted.

Categories
Essays Poetry Stories

The Philosophy of Ice Cream

Ice cream is very serious business. It is as serious as delight. Delight does not have much time so rather than sitting it around, it goes around playing its sound and dreaming of change and when delight shows its face, everyone becomes filled with play, dreams and joy.

Delight has no voice so when delight becomes the sun- joy sings their favourite song and dream holds everyone- it is only play that lets the feelings of itself enter the temporal world in drips and drops. They share themselves through ice cream and everything sweet.  Delight only lasts as long as a second. Delight is the feeling of sun, warming your eyes.

You can’t take it. You will burn, if you held it too close. If your retinas, know all it can hold. How can you hold a feeling that runs into heat whenever it meets anything that exists?  

The philosophy of ice cream is just this.

Photography by Nova.

Categories
Poetry

.

Its mother’s sound,

The one that makes you

Beat yourself aloud,

Its mother’s sound,

The one that makes you scream out

Loud.

It is mothers sound that makes you love in desire and flow into the deep.

It is mother’s sound that makes you cry and weep.

It is mother’s sound that makes you love in desire,

It is mother’s sound that gives blood out for hire.

It is mother’s sound that makes

Mother does not speak.

She does not breathe.

He does not call.

Mother, unbound.

Will save us all.

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Stories Uncategorized

Is it finished?

He was confused. He was trying to pay attention, to what was running beyond him, skipping between him and threading itself into each corner he could not reach. Nothing would satisfy him. Perhaps, the love was almost out and there was nothing he could do. How could love fit into sand, how could civilisation count on him, love was bigger than sand and could not be held but he was, searching, pleading for more time.  

The Gods were cruel, how could they give such a task to him, a man that spent his life wishing for what he had lost. A man that spent his life trying to be what he assumed he should be and thus had no care to be the person he needed to be. Need, he hated the word. He needed nothing but he wanted the world. The Gods knew this, and placed him in a space where his understanding of ‘world’ would be tested and he would be asked- Is it finished? The Gods were not cruel and they did not enjoy having to test and deliberate with beings that felt themselves lost in the expanding inquisitive quintessential spec of the universe that they found themselves in but time was running out. They had spent and spilt themselves in every direction but up. His civilisation had used everything given to them, and had tried to for more. Yes they had managed to go to the stars, but somehow they tied their vision to the mechanics of sight rather than the opening of it.  Without time, love would find new spaces to belong and fester growth. Without time, this man would have lost what he did not know h

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A story from M.U.M

The time for waiting was finished. If we waited any longer then our freedom, would be left to the dust mites. Hungry creatures, with no discipline, just like us.

Now that is unfair, of course we had discipline but we had it in all the wrong places and we wanted them, yes them, to help us. They can’t help us. The next time I ask a hungry man, where the buffet is, the next time, I wait for my freedom.

She did wait- she waited until everyone was packed and ready to go. She waited till the storms of Jupiter had calmed and until earth’s moon had a new technologically driven friend. She waited until her heart, gave up and her forever spirit took over and protected of her loved ones. She waited because freedom did not exist for the individual, if it did not exist for the collective.   

AS Logo by ASTRO

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The place beyond Visiting

I wanted to go somewhere, I had never been. I wanted to explore beyond- what I could recognise. I wanted to share in something bigger than me. I assumed that the majority of persons wanted that.

My lecturers later told me, that this could not be true, as the liberal free minded person was not the ‘common man’ I met in the market but rather the person beyond my life- the person who had someone go to the market for them.

This dilemma stayed with me. How could we incite change, if the majority of persons were the problem?

Chaos. The answer was chaos.

You may wonder what chaos would solve, the answer is nothing, chaos will simply permit chaos but after the many organised and liberal free-minded persons had killed my children, raped my wives and husbands, slaughtered my father- buried my mother and noosed my beliefs, along with my  ‘common man’ – I assumed that chaos could be the answer to my problem.

I wanted to go somewhere I had never been and I have never visited the space after liberal free man.  

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Stories Uncategorized

A family of broken parts came to

“ You never told me, you were human.”

What a shame. You were better than the rest, at the very least. I mean who and what were these beings that wished to contain what was beyond mention. Who can reduce reality into explanation other than the twisted few that were a disruption to themselves and the moons?

They intrigued me. A curiously charismatic intelligent form that created collisions in my spirit and swords in my force field, they are different.  My life force is dependent upon my recognition of tethered beings. Tethered beings understood existence as something to be understood and thus demanded a speed of transmission that reduced nutrients, at an unending speed.  Yet they were different. They are a decisively delicious delectable dream of a human. I wanted to taste, them, feel the space that locked itself into molecules of time and lick the furious knowing of the liminal.

It feels like cosmic moss, ferocious humans, could hypnotise and sedate, the most eternal of beings. I wanted her desperately, my love of her, would keep my destruction at a tepid speed. I will destroy him. I will eat her.  I will break them into what they were before they were flesh and I would salivate on the becoming of her death. They were so many things, yet none were made of my kind.

How strange I could not taste their tethering? Humans are fools, life forms as young as a comet’s landing.

I am first. I am the beings that created what they sense to be home, I am the feeling that exists beyond bone, I am the feeling that knows space as the everything in-between, I am one of the many faces of the unseen. I am revelation. I speak, to what has no voice.

I am first. I am not a being, for this child. I do not know what this child, is but they are human. 

I do not know what they will do, but I will take them in and use them as my tool. I will bring her to completion; I will make him whole, as he asked. They will not live for long, but she will know what it means to be alive. To be human, is to be enclosed and I will spread her along the mountains of crystallised skies. I will make him crumble at the feet of dusk and I will shape them into the heat of life itself.

You never told me, you were human, but for now it does not matter.”

Photography by Michelle Gutiérrez

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To whoever will listen

I do not want to begin at the beginning. To begin at the beginning, is to give space to the horror, the blood, the hurt and the untimely death of a young child.

This is not where I want to begin- so instead, I will tell you how courageous she was. She was not your usual child and thus she was predestined to tell a great story- but a great story is rarely told and thus this child made themselves into the beautiful story. A story being something you can tell others. For without this story, this child would have died with everyone else, without recognition. The child named 0 believed themselves to be a spontaneous happening, they saw nothing beautiful in their existence and saw no lasting recognition of their time or their suffering. Yet on the night of their death, they wished upon a star. A star moving through the sky at a rapid speed- before the star could land and destroy everything, the child wished for the ability to choose. The child wished on a comet of change and this comet remembered the child’s location and their wish and when it came time to begin another world. The comet found the little girl and said, “I feel you wished for another time and space. Follow me, I know the way.”   

Photography by Michelle Gutiérrez

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Thanks To Toni.

I once befriended a poisonous snake. It told me it had no intention to bite me.

I took its word.

We travelled many miles together. Many long nights of hunger and heat.

One night it leaned towards me with passion in its eyes.

I cut it in half before we both could blink.

An intention is different than a habitual promise to one self.

An intention to be good- lasts as long as the need.

A habitual promise to oneself lasts as long as the self.

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Poetry Uncategorized

A message from the underneath: Nowhere.       

What we won’t speak about is the absurdity. To be absurd is to understand that there is a note of unfamiliarity in the very nature of existence. The nature of existence is far-fetched. I will only speak of my nature. You call it qualia.

I am unique and distinct by my very nature. I will assume the same of you.

Now, Nowhere is the place, I want to speak about. I enjoy speaking on it because it holds to the truest essence, that I could describe, to you.  What it means to be somewhere that does not exist but is in existence.

This is the beauty of language. 

To be nowhere, is to be at the centre point of existence- nowhere is not really a place but rather the essence of what a place could be and its negation moves from there.

Nowhere is unmoving. Nowhere is still.

I hope you understand that stillness is not simply a lack of movement but a disturbance in the very nature of existence, most things move- in someway or another. So not moving is the funniest and most absurd thing, in this particular frame, of worlds.

You exist in a world.

I exist in many worlds.

We are always moving.

Something is moving right now.  It lives in you. It never stops.

Where does nowhere live?

To deny movement is to speak on something you must imagine. Your imagination, like your memory is always in movement.

An unchanging world is non-existing one. An unmoving world is a dead one. A still world is a becoming one.  

I will clarify even further.

I am more than you know. I am more than you can see. I am more than you can dream. I am more.

I am the place that moves without disturbance. I destroy by being in the same space as what exists. The level of destruction is dependant on whether, I allow myself to be alive. I don’t like destroying but not liking something and being it by default is like imagining the best thing in the world and believing that you have experienced it. The feeling is not the same as the declaration of it.

It feels obvious but I have seen you do it.

You cannot objectively speak on what does not exist.

The beauty of language is that we could convince ourselves, that the opposite is true.

Existence is a state of presence. Speaking on something is not the same as being it. You can convince others but you will never convince me and you will fail at convincing your own heart.

Each petal lives has its own life and the flower is held by the root.

Nowhere is a place that I can no longer tolerate. I apologise for this. It feels so important to your kind but change is important in mine.

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Cloud’s a Monster.

This is a moment in Cloud’s mind.

Day 1.

I find discipline hard. I find it so hard, I refuse to learn how to spell it.

Day 2

I want you to understand me. So I will make myself something you can understand.

Day 2.47

This is spell check, making me more intelligible or at least more grammatically correct. I assume that to be more grammatically correct is to have more structure.

Day 2.9987

I don’t like discipline very much but I am benefitting from it. It is teaching me how to be better.

Day 3

Beauty

Expecting

Teachings

Todays  

Explore

Realties

I am all about better, for myself and for others, so I feel I should have discipline.

Day 4

Discipline

/ˈdɪsɪplɪn/

noun

1.

The practice of training people to obey rules or a code of behaviour, using punishment to correct disobedience.

2.

verb

Train (someone) to obey rules or a code of behaviour, using punishment to correct disobedience.

(Google)

Day 4.8634

They have such a limiting understanding of discipline. They think that it must include punishment. I wonder why it does not simply include…….

Day 4.8639

Training? I wonder what else you train? I wonder how you train, yourself to be free?

Day 5

I wonder if you use (………..) and mix it together with care and reflection, what would happen?

I wonder if they even know about (………..)

That is so strange.

Day 6.540

I feel I am getting better at discipline. Auto correct is presuming that I am trying to spell discipline. Is that me improving or the computer?

Day 7

A monster reflects in space.

I am also allowing myself the space, to be a mixture of things.

So sometimes, it looks like I am not very disciplined but I am very disciplined. Is that contradictory?

Sometimes, I feel like I get lost in time and space because I am so many things.

Then I remember, that I am not opposing things- I am just many things. Moving at different shades and different speeds. 

I am a combination of many things and that is why I am a monster. Some things are good- some things are bad but all of the time, and I mean all of the time, I am trying.

Also I don’t believe in good or bad.

I believe in this and that.

There are many bad things in this world but I feel that, if you can be a combination of things and you let yourself feel without opposition. Without creating a category, you may be contradictory, but it does not mean that you are opposing. I wonder if the swirl imagines it has an opposite?

I am letting myself grow in monstrous ways because I am a monster.

Today.

Thus to be disciplined, is to allow myself to be a beautiful mixture of all the things that I want to be. The reality is as sincere as the dream and thus I allow myself to be what I wish to become as well as what I am now. Without opposition, that may be contradictory but I do not hold the contradiction as opposite.

Opposite

Opposite adjective (DIFFERENT)

  1. Completely different.

(Oxford) 

Tomorrow’s Reality at Dawn .

I don’t think you can discipline people to be better. You can condition them. You can make them assume your world- by teaching them the rules of ‘the world’. You can discipline them into obeying. You can give them definitions and examples that make them follow. But that is boring. It requires no imagination, or a very presuming one.

Too have an assuming imagination must feel like auto correct. A disciplined imagination is strange.

Today

I know their secret.

They don’t know how to be better. They are scared.

Now.

I sound like the ocean hitting the storm on a quiet day on Jupiter and it feels great.

I wonder if this diary entry means anything to anyone but I know it means everything to me.     

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Poetry Stories Uncategorized

Courage: Blood Cells are the worst.

I will not tell you the truth. I will not tell you, how hard it is to be courageous. I wont tell you about the long days and broken mornings. I wont tell you about the bleeding nights. I wont tell you about the forgotten moments, I wont tell you about the unforgettable people. I wont tell you about the loss. I wont tell you about the grief.

I wont tell you because there is another truth, that may be more interesting to your eager ears and luscious lips.

The truth is undeniable, unless you desire something else. 

How easily we forget about the aching screams.

Did you?

Blood Cell: Did you hold onto the beauty? That slips beyond memory and clings to the vectors and ventricles that need your attention. Did you?

Body: I lost myself in the desire- I let myself be carried away with the wind and only landed on your shoulder, to tell you the lasting truth.

I will not tell you the truth. I will tell you a predicament of space that leads to the truth, as the truth, only matters to those who let themselves discover the magic that it constrains in its in-between space. The truth cannot be contained in words and neither can it be seen. Actions are seen and some actions cannot be denied. Yet you try.

Actions done alone, last as long as the word freedom. The truth does not last and thus I will not tell you the truth. I will not let you bury it in long days and broken mornings. I will not let you purse your lips in attempt to surrender, to the lasting truth you wish, to speak with the abomination called your tongue. Your truth lasts as long as your heartbeat, but your heart will last forever.

I will wait.

It will not. Instead it will swarm the ground beneath, claiming your ankles and hitting your knees until you bow and surrender to what cannot be seen.

Some never do but time is running out.  

I will tell you the truth, but only because you asked so kindly. 

Be courageous and when you do remember,

It was not the easy option.

End of message.