All the things I’ve never done, and will never do, they remind me of all the things I’d be had I had a chance to live, breathe, sing and cry, not knowing why, reaching towards the horizon and screaming at all the letters I’d be able to read had I studied a little more, learned a little more, lived a little more,
But that’s just that, isn’t it? What kind of life is this? Eating and sleeping and breathing leads nowhere, nowhere at all, unless I choose to see, see and believe, the concept of which drives me into circles that take me there and back again, where and back to a land of no return - return where? Where’s home, knowing there’s none, knowing what was, wasn’t, and what will be, won’t be, because I don’t see anything I don’t choose to, don’t read anything I can’t see, can’t hear anything because the last of my mind wallows in the righteous fires of imagination, fiction, livid, lost, relinquished from the time I’d given too many times, too far gone, too long lost, and with that under my belt, I know I just can’t stop breathing.
Breathing, breathing, breathing, wouldn’t I love the sight of the Grand Canyon? To reach out towards the nothing and touch it here, now, feeling the dust between my fingertips rise, rise, rise like ashes into my nose and under my chest, where my lungs meet the air and I, too, swell towards a challenge I didn’t know I could face. A challenge I didn’t know existed.
Because life guarantees more than meets the eye. These are the old halls, sacred at heart before it’s all gone again, riveting, captivating, slandered by the fields of yesteryear to a point where I can’t help but embellish thoughts with feeling, feeling with the tangible, tarnished now beyond conception, because to conceive is to give name, and to give name is to give thought, and to give thought is to give life. And what kind of life can the dead give to someone who refuses to hear?
These are the vibrant nights, the welcome windows that drift curtains like the sea, filtering light shafts onto hazy rugs accentuated, highlighted like the fringes of cloud. Silver lining, isn’t it? Under the bluest of hours, dare I see more?
My fingers feel dust on empty shelves and I wonder, again, why?
All these things I’ve never done, and will never do, they remind me of all the people I’ve never believed in. All the stolen breath, my breath, that I’d be so desperate to give for the first time, my first time.
Creature beloved, creature comfort,
I despise voice
Teasing, tickling, intangible beyond the soul
For there’s nothing that meets the eye that I won’t see
Give me a name and I will do it all again, again, again - until there’s nothing left but one, last,
word
