I find myself in a heterotopia looking for a new wave to wash over me with a gentle rhythm and quiet I haven’t felt in years. Bitter wine has washed me down and the feeling of recognising the blood running through my veins is a feeling all too rare in a lust for wall of plastic toys. I look upon my floor, laden with trash and thrust dusty garments alike, put there with a child’s delighted eyes. I dream of riches in sweet memories I have deposited to gain intrigue and collect under my bed.
The fusion within my soul that my heart inclines me we all pulse toward, is tangible! We’re all blending and it’s beautiful, though those years we have drowned in damages and trauma in an attempt to deny the life we truly could live. We’ve bobbed like boeys in this water, dripping with sarcasm drinking in and away our comforts.
I find myself on a crest gazing toward what is to come, a period of frantic change to be sure; if nothing else.
It’s sure to be marked my shells on the beach miles of unknown souls like the memories under my bed. Truly. They will be alone with no being to listen. All those moments discarded as the mass of water pulls back, pinning us to our final motif.
While the crest lingers I scan my floor only guessing the routes that month old candy wrapper could have traveled to land there, stranded forgotten.
I begin to hear whispers from quiet birds this is to be our place, as memories stranded in a purgatory where there is no pain, no fulfillment, simply a moment when one day the wave surge on back, an insumountable coulda-water-shoulda-didn’t. While the waves call like sirens I seek not a comfortable crepuscular cocaine high nor do I wish to lay on the shore with the din of old Eden’s colliding, to surrender to a fate I did not create.
I think on countless momentoes momentarily lost, to be found deep in the linings lint.
We see our path ahead only through accomodation and the fusion within us to temper the waves to come. But no force nor any other entity could pull from suits a stop the bathing bloody flood
The cranes take their roost soon and the migration is cancelled we must choose fusion with ourselves and our planet, our only perfect planet! Or let ourselves was away with shells, dirty socks and candy wrappers in a drunken binge. Human sacrifices to our legacy, ones with no living heirs and few suitable successors.
We must have final and ultimate respect for fused memories and hope in accomodation and by no other means. Lest that accomodation be held at extortion till the price is too high bar some slim few in deboutched pleasures. While most sit in the jaws of hell’s firey urban jungle long before we are swept to sea the beauty of which we will never set eyes upon again.
But ahead plotting in futures in a peak of pleasures and miracle tonics we are yet to notice our coming pergatury. Remember the blood running through you.
The blood of slim miracles.
The blood of unspoken changes.
The blood of our mortality.
The blood from the wave that will smear or smooth us.
The blood of us.
The small, the powerful, the pointless, pointy headed, red, deaded, the living, the lifeless, the meaningful, the mental, sentimental, fundimental, unintellegable, surreal, women of steel, men of carefree zeal.
Remember the blood you inherited from the slimmest of chances to Beatles to pussy pimples. Remember the blood that rebels with loving hatred to the entropy that came before you could have ever enjoyed a breath. Remember the blood that will one day lay with you at the end, stilling with the last pumps of your heart. Remember the blood cycling within our view to be taken or shared in good faith. Remember the blood of us, rebels defiant to the impossible void and oncoming waves. Rebel accomodating the infinite who coulda-shoulda-and-did.
Photo Credits: Blythe Allan