Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Melancholy

I am almost sure outer space sounds this way,
when you are floating there silently. Without
a position, and endlessly gliding along a straight
path, the only things that might ever move are the
stars, listing you gently.

There are certain times I come to this place,
the older I get, it doesn't matter I keep coming.
It is a checkpoint and the sounds in the background,
distort and twist in that melancholy way. The
soundscapes that fleet for only a moment, and the milky
whiteness that envelopes you, and keeps your fingertips cold.

The heart moans a bit, but one doesn't really quite understand why.
All I feel is impetus. A feeling of nervousness that starts in the chest.
It builds, in a slow way, but sometimes it becomes violent.
The desire for me to shed the baggage, and fly suddenly.

The drive that moves one to extreme ways. For if life wasn't so slow,
and so longing and so painful, maybe it would be smoother.
But because things get stuck and they stay and they hurt,
the extreme is only inevitable. And for...

A moment in this lifetime, and brief, but in the back of the head,
in the milky whiteness where the sounds distort sweetly,
it lasts forever. I know I won't ever forget that moment for
as long as I am alive. Until my brain gets fuzzy and I forget.

Whenever it happens, when you find the
place again, and if it comes and you recall.
You long for it and it hurts and you feel the need to throw yourself,
to whichever way feels good and then
you remember again you live in the now.

To want for passionate things, and to always want
them to move you is the most artistic of lives, but most lives
are a restriction imposed on one's self and these few
are the moments when there's a longing.

It doesn't ever stop me, however, from falling into the void
again and gliding in the ether. I fall sometimes when I am
least expecting into the fuzz, and I don't mind the buzz
and it sometimes placates me in a self-loathing sort of way.

Because I love imagining the coulds and woulds and
the possibilities that are always endless in the sub-mind,
where there's the milkiness and the noises, and I can't say
that even when the drive explodes and the moment happens,
that I ever have failed to enjoy the ramifications.

Eventually, you leave the suspension, and fall back to the world
where there are semblances and forms and realize you are in the
real world, hard and ruthless and sometimes fearful. Things are
more dangerous here and why not then enjoy the milkiness?

I'm ready to come again, because I always do, but I won't forget
the time that has passed and the couldn'ts that have, and the coulds
that have not. In the milkiness, anything is possible.