only art will understand

I feel myself going crazy again today, in the way that only art will understand.

If I can just catch a word, a shape, a color long enough to make something of it. Maybe then it will begin to make some semblance of sense.

Or likely it never will, which I may as well accept sooner than later. Not for my own sanity, per se, because I most certainly had none to begin with. Nor for peace of mind, exactly, but rather for a hope. A hope of what, I’m not so sure, but perhaps solely for the hope of living.

Some brains weren’t meant for logic; some bodies weren’t designed for reason. And I will never deduct the yes’s and no’s of my heart. Instead I will continue to live the only way I know how. By fever-drawn dreams and scratches in sand leading to a place I can only hope feels like home.

It feels like a feeling I will never quite capture. A sound on the verge of being heard. I caught a hand today and was surprised at how close she was there. I thought her a vision I would never quite touch.

I now lie sideways, in a carriage, and type.

The words flew by yesterday, and then again today, and I didn’t catch them fast enough.

Isn’t that how it always seems to go?

What they don’t tell you, beforehand, or even during the adventure, is how mad you must be to partake. They don’t tell you the feelings you’ll experience on the way, skipping along the yellow brick road to nowhere. I’ve floated the abyss for too long. I don’t know how to return.

I paused the screen right before the movie turned real.

I covered my ears just prior to hearing the scream.

I shaved away pieces only to uncover more underneath. More what? I’ll never know.

I didn’t hit save, and all was lost.

The masterpiece slipped through detached fingertips. I wasn’t yet ready. I was born ready.

There are others like me, of that I am convinced. Yet no two of us are the same.

We only feel at home in the ocean. Press your head back far enough, and you can float.

We need each other, desperately, yet we need no one at all.

We crave stillness only to discover, when it comes, that our heart screams a perfectly silent sound.

We tiptoe on the edge, shadowy sunset of a dance, wondering why no one else has joined us on the cliffside. Don’t they know the beauty down below? Or can it only be seen by our (very blind) eyes?

I sleepwalked my way through a world built of numbers.

This morning bright red blood dripped from skin worn away, first by relentless itching, and then infection that spread, stealthily, within.

The ceiling was white; it shook me awake.

Energy buzzed in the walls directly before disaster struck.

Nobody thought to give rest to the water. It ran for hours through a drained-dry pump before the lightest of touches brought it back again.

A chainsaw serves as unforeseen backdrop. Construction’s sounds and smells, a place for one weary head to rest.

Three misfits curled together, late of course, but for what, none of us knows.

The ball continues to roll and I just may have reached a giant circle with my arms.

Side stretches are the kind that feel best, right now.

I’m not sure what I’m doing here, and I don’t know what I’m not doing here, either. But I do know one thing. I finally feel ready, today, to get back to work.

It feels like kneeling a stone’s throw from the answer, yet knowing deep down that there is no answer. There’s only life.

My fingers were made to move and my wild heart’s song beats against unprotected ribcage. Spirit plagued by an eternal escapist, craving to get out. And then just as suddenly, self-imposed walls come crumbling down.

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