20161104

There is a panic to the importance of what you say and when and to whom and to how much you stow in other compartments of time in served spaces to keep shelves of reality in place so that who one is becoming is not lost to forget or to be unnoticed. Word stems become broken flowers from the last save. You never get the bloom back. Writing daily there is an attachment in the act, the lusciousness of ritual, the sanctuary of an invented world, plotting the mind labyrinth knowing the minotaur will devour you if you stare or stay still too long. There is a mirror in his eyes dancing in what will one do, who will one choose to be alive bleeding words like spit teeth in a bar fight or cochlea hairs billowing a tiny army at the expected sound of a lover coming into kiss. The world breaks in being in the moment, the words write in blackboard of night etched in tantric savor that everything beyond this is somehow this too. The whole universe is swallowed in being now, doing alive. This is how we tingle into explosion enigmatically superseding the boundaries of our individuality undulating outwards into the energetic force that we actually are.