She scales the sound-scape. Elastic, beats the wings of those messages flown from the reaches no one dares. What is sacred here; I, feel. Truthfully, that is all I know. My head is raving. The ghost is on my pillow. The ghost is on the brain. My legs are cold. I feel insane. Do you feel? Are we on the same walkway. Or would you hide the pain.
Coiled in a bag of rich textures and scents. A brutal psychedelic, loosened and soft. Tearing my mind; searing the neurons. Absorbing. The shake of her breathe like lilac, she kissed my mind. Blew her smoke through me, my space. “Everything is nothing, nothing is everything”, she beckoned. I made no caution with such a victimless statement: I realize now, there is no beginning nor end of time. I am in the midst of a fragment of memories. My soul, caught in a sticky sweet amber spell; warps itself, cuddles with the abstraction of time. My birth was death. Change. I falter off course again. I am transient. The smoke leaves my lungs. She settles her bedroom eyes downcast, as though through my heart. Her gaze presses through my skin; my chest a swarm of butterflies. Flickering between a shot, friendly fire. She makes my pulse. Marks it’s inundations with a bias twist. “why do you loose yourself in this”? Seduced by the moons cutting glazed gravity. I am incorporeal yet visceral. If people could see the depth of realism, there would be no context for paradoxes. There is no need for finiteness in language. I shook off the the flare of synapses interlocking and diverging. I settled the birth of abstraction and divinity into my sinking eyes. My fingers laced with sadness; my bones heavy with the magnitude, quiet and other-worldly. The fire of myth was the very same. Prometheus’ lens allows this. Fits of coughing. Chuckles. Far out reaching eyes. I shared these things with them, with you now as I elongate the segments of lost displaced connections. I am trying to find the connection; the outer worldly skeletal key.
She whispers in my ear over and over. Through my brain, I rest defeated. An accumulation of words from the collective mass brings me to a dead-end. I am immersing myself into the collective consciousness. Is it my mental delusions or has the universe opened my eyes? I was blindsided. I grapple with the context of reality. Split mind. They called us prophets, once. Now lunatics. The doors of perception are seemingly easy for me to rifle through. Yet, at times, the burden is an overwhelming weight of dark days and heavy despair.
I sift through the astral plane. As the glow of the cherry brightened and dulled. Huge breaths. I was slowly nowhere. In the gaping vortex. The underbelly of thought. The origin of religion.
A flux. Sifting through nonsense, my mind adheres to the daydreams.