The sun was sleeping on her belly while
The trees roared songs of distress
Powered by an ancient magic I
Inherited in my bones
I could hear them, see them, but when I spoke
My voice came out in wisps of smoke
I was nothing but the sound
Of rising motors bearing south
Beating beauty with my baton
I drew my own creations
I swallowed summer, spring and fall
And wrapped the dead in shawls of winter
It has been a long time since I wrote prose. I feel lost underneath my sea of thoughts; prose did not desert me but I slowly and steadily deserted prose, my first companion and the listener of my dreams and desires, and fears and fires. I am in another country, and happy and sad at the same time.
At times I am hit by the power of the world’s hostility and it blinds me to everything else. I question my capability to right the wrongs I see; who is to say that they are wrongs at all? All my definitions of them are in my head, and all I can do is write them down through the deepest abstractions and glide along, hoping someone would pick up where I leave off and feel the intense desire to do something, anything. But who is to know which “something” should be done, out of the thousands of somethings down there.
I left this poem midway because I started writing it on my phone and thought I would complete it on the laptop but when I finally typed it out here, my mind was a blank slate again. I hope to satiate my strong desires to stay in the center of large cases of books, picking the pieces of my heart through the prose and poetry others have laid down. Whether or not they are dead or alive right now matters very little but what matters is that they once were and that they once felt what they wrote, or pretended to feel it, or thought very sincerely that they were feeling it whilst in reality, they were not. I marvel at their writing and wish I could absorb it. I would be lost if I met them in real life and I wouldn’t say a single word, letting silence do my talking for me, but on paper we become best friends.
And, having been forced to refine my words on paper these past two months, I now see how chaotic an exercise my blog is. But I love it all the more for it. This raw energy would be lost, the moment I start to edit the things I write. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing, of course, but thank heavens for the wonderful, joyful ability of writing whatever-whenever-however, and putting it out into the world, all the time pretending the only one who can hear you is you yourself.
The dimensions I create appear and disappear at will, but while they are here I embrace them, making the most out of the madness. This is why I love the things Charles Bukowski says, so unapologetically.