Slowed down the world is exotic

            A festering begins in the base of my brain. I don’t know, maybe it is just a week of unforgivables. My body reacts to the tension I feel from all four corners of oblivion and earth. I can’t stop my mind from hopping over harsh themes, skipping stones across the stream of my Michigan childhood, such as death and suffering- the thought stays just long enough for an image that would shake the walls of Jerusalem. Paint my picture with sorrow and forgiveness, the colors of the stormy night. 

Restraint was useless when the tiger is in her cage for the night, the dolls packed up nice and neatly in their perspective boxes- plastic heaven. I was always aware that the stakes are high and performance is expected when the dawn arises and I struggle to stay in bed, once awake I try to keep calm but the fuels in me arise and I shall never be the same. Forgive me for my sex drive and appeal, I guess I felt the need to apologize for everything. There are so many rafters to appease, dark rooms to covet and keep silent.
I don’t mind change as much as I used to. Safety doesn’t seem to enter in through the front door, he waits until twilight and sits in your kitchen whether you want him there or not. I dress for a formal occasion and fix him whatever the hell we have in the kitchen hoping with every step, from stovetop to sink, that I can appease him for the time ever swarming around, hissing in my ear. 

There seemed no sanctuary, no continuous profit to roll in, no voice that stayed steady through my life of mirrors and awakenings. I always walk “blind”: my third eye knows more than he is telling. Strangers seeped in through the top of my head- my veins opening up to understand the challenges of your particular being, the cracks on the sidewalk, the places for me to sink in and stay. I will figure this out. I just have to keep witness and writing. Hard times have been and hard times are still as of yet to come.
            Cathedrals have their own language. I came across it many years ago, before you were even a thought in the mind of the mystics. Don’t be red and drowning. Caving in through the roof, the dove and lizard intertwined, single orphaned star set to explode in the wilderness sometime soon (in relative terms). I wrestle with the angel every night. 

Waking up with someone else’s heartbeat in your ear, you cough, shake, and sit up. You find your bed empty. I usually panic at this point, oh god, was that a dream? I search the house and find no one. I find myself so much of the time and very alone. I have come to respect alone.

            Sensation kept repeating, a protest against a wax generation: machines give you a wink and a smile. Mothers shed tears like a candle drips from burning long into the night’s atmosphere. Driving through the rain, you pull over to the side and sit, wait out the torrents: ice slicing through grey fog. Closing your eyes you let the rhythm rest over you. Sensation is coming, you can calm down and ride it through. 

I like to sit in the bathroom by myself and listen to music turned all the way up in the headphones that were my dads. Empathy comes with time and trauma. Lean and move slowly, I learn and lead the steps: the dance just beginning to grow, it erupts inside, loose and fluid. Screams become blind and the thunder in my head is silenced, for a moment. Time surrenders to me quietly and I bow in respect and deep gratitude. Slowed down the world is exotic. 

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