We Until Vaporate

Like a record skipping we are forced to find the song within the nonsense.

And at the end of it all?

Maybe it is really nothing.

Either way, we made a promise too see this through.

All the way.

Until we boil and burst.

Until we evaporate.

Until we make it home again.

I've capsized and been marooned in a busy metropolis. I smell like the sea so no one notices me as I make my way, star struck, through these narrow streets.

On my way, amnesia sets in. Who am I? What is my name? Where do I come from? Where am I going? Nostalgia without memory these things reminisce about something, I can't quite. . .

Thinking more about the art of doing nothing.

The perfect moment is found slumbering away inside you, unawares, until it is awoken in the knowledge it is no long needed. It looks out and, groggy as it is, it recognizes it is no longer inside but in front of you and fades into the vaporation of actualized being-ness.

I am no writer, I am simply a girl with a pen.

Into some dark corners the boundless mind roams. Uninhibited, unshackled and free to feel – so much - on occasion it ends up in the hands of desperation, emotional deviance and flattery without love.

It can't be helped.

Desculpa.

But we still have time, to erase the needles from the past, in the lubricating oils of the present. Ahh, the present. Can't mistake it for anything else, here it rides, tied up with words, I can't quite,

Locked up in the every second, to pull it out would surly be to kill it.

Maybe one day we can safely talk about it in the past - pull it out, taxidermied and under glass, a museum piece - but for now; the perfection and everythingness, the serendipity, the closeness, the magnificence, oh the sheer phosphorescent beauty of every ticking second!

The present doesn't lie, it stands, for everything I've fought to be destined to become.

The present doesn't lie.

Reveling the reality and fallibility of person hood means finding a nodule of sadness even amidst this infinite glee.

Seeing the dedication of a fathers love and weep, for the all encompassing patriarchal atonement that will never come.

And maybe that's just it. Freedom in the silence? Yes. Love? To be sure. But an answer for this? No. That is just time my friend, time and a re-dedication to the knowledge of immortality. The past is the past. What's done is done.

Moonlight lights my finest hour.

This way.

Whoosh...

That way.

Whoosh....

This is nothing less than going all the way.

Now I know, what the laughter of the Gods sounds like.

It sounds like the beach in the moonlight. It sounds like a midnight motorboat and it looks like the heavens fell on me.

It's what remains that counts, you and your fly paper heart, ready to bite again.

I love someone I can't even pronounce their name. It's so hard to believe it feels fake.

Obrigada.

Today is completed in the setting sun, both arduous and lazing, its sits well in the stomach, I am feeling bit by bit less and more.

Chasing summer around the word, moving west to fight the night. Travel on. Travel on.

I am barefoot in the desert. Like walking on hot coals, the best strategy is to breath, and transcend.

This is how we overcome, we don't become over-came.

I am trying to see this as it really is; a long road, a late day, a heartfelt salute, the waning light, this plastic and this camp concrete. It should not sustain. It should wobble and bend and shift under the weight of my reality, be pulled in by my gravity, it should be lost in it's own truthlessness. . .

Maybe in time. For now it is me that wobbles.

Nostalgia for a current time, this is the greatest feeling.

Milky black the night settles in again, settles onto the skin, of everything. It is rich, this night, rich and tepid and it masks the dawn that will truly come, eventually - inevitably. This is apart of a repeating phrase.

Like a record skipping we are forced to find the song within the nonsense.