Not gone, just forgotten
Woken on the jagged saw-edge; sleeping on eggshell fragments and rising covered in their cracked proteinase content. Flashed and flushed through with bleached, starkly startling views, to the edge of exhaustive collapse at the poignant point, time to forget which side of reality we choose to accept as our own. Cannot choose. Forced to accept. Await the happening of fate.
It doesn’t happen in this place; this here and now, devoid of being and the ability to connect. Mummified by reticence. Gagged by superlatives. It doesn’t happen because this is not right. This is not the right now. In time, we’ll write the right now in the knowledge that existence is futile, save for the synchronic magic twisting in the air as meteors showered the sky with firework hue and eyes could just make out the edge of silhouette view…
A bustling, earthsome descent, to find chipped and carved, bored and picked and impeccably tiled halls of grandeur, soiled by the touch of a million dusty hands over tide and time. If the gentle pencilled finger laced each stroke with a word, we could cover the entire cavern in literal literature. Some may halt and pause, many may just learn to accept the change; forget the elemental. How could seeing a magnitude of millions assist whichever mundanities we call thoughts?
Time to board and forget; pillion piles in to a mulch of mess and jumble. The soupy air thickens as heat rises, the world encapsulated here glows in an alcoholic charm, yet i still stumble to absorb the occurrence. Lightweight. He might launch into a tirade, she might dance, sing, or handswing lithely under bars, but the mere suggestion of their presence threatening to volcanically erupt, stirs glares fired callously as ammunition in fog. With the surrounding dizzyingly dense, nerves coiled tighter than violin string threaten to twist and wrench. Quell this palpitation. Curl its paper leaf into a ball of ripped raggedness…
In contrast, once the bustle had left, their echo remained. The light trails swept underfoot in air currents circled as smoke in a sunbitten sky, but for once, the seconds of solitude felt like a leaky ballpoint pen with shattered and sharded plastic jabbing at the edges of a deformed soul. It can’t be just me seeing this. Not just me in the company of this majesty.
The quickstepping patter gone, time to view an exquisite hall of elegance. Akin to walking through the mirror, from a busy street into a forgotten palace, but where cooling, freshly squeezed air whistles amidst the hum and background drone of heavy and clumsy metal. The reality was even more grand and elegant than a snapshot clicked in time could ever hold - the free flung green breeze took any words I might have had to play in the exhaust fumes and slowly baking grasses and leaves. Can’t even communicate in eyes…
Encompassed in all directions by such warming hues and even a wry smile cascading between the tiles. Unchanged, untouched, preserved. The transition from waking to dreaming happened the second the snake shapes of curving rail revealed themselves, and did not change back until the second in which sleep hit.
Time cannot be truely held by anyone; yet was this just another dream?
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