But they look with eyes, and no heart. Your eyes can't see you need your heart. Words well up. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of nouns and verbs; of tense. I rearrange I rephrase I start again, again. I am no closer I have not even begun to begin. I run from words I run from pens. They chase me down, no that's not true. They chase me from within, they hide in my brain. I can't escape words, words can't escape me. I lay them bare, to see; ugly and real, under fluorescent light, nothing incandescent to shade the eye. No relief from the things I see, no relief from the things I speak. I am town crier dirty and wild. You don't want to see the things I see, I lay them bare and ugly but still make them pretty. They come to me when they are not these. When they are ugly demeaning demanding useless little things.
What is a life, what is connection. We speak all these sounds, these consonants these vowels. We make pretty as we play at communication. We hear, we speak, but we do not see. What makes it a word and what makes you understand it? What makes an attraction, and how will you define it?
I am broken by the physicality of our intentions. I am broken by the physicality that does not match my intentions. I am broken by the physicality it was not what I intended. If how you feel is always words words talking but with no meaning. Why do you persist? We are running so fast, so fast, so fast to nowhere. We are saying, saying so much of nothing. We are trying trying to reach out our hands. We reach we grab but we do not grasp. What is in a life, and how does it find its connection. What attracts a life to other lives and how does your life define your connection? What do you look for and how do you find it? Is it in the eye, the mind, the heart the mouth? Does it come up from your bowels to your softly parted lips, regurgitating the sound? I house all of my beauty deep within me. I leave all of my ugliness outside to draw life away from me. I am camouflage I blend in fully. I do not want to be seen so intimately. I live my life in fairy tales, in whimsy. I smile and engage outwardly while dancing within me. In my glass box display I am a curiosity. A museum piece. A conversation starter. The eyes poking at me dissecting me while mouths mouth sounds mouthily. I see the lips moving pursing popping oohing. I hear the tongues wagging clacking. The teeth they dance, not touching then touching, touching then not touching, fighting and snapping biting and snatching,
and still I look down into the truth of things.
Don't come any closer to this box. I'm screaming loudly, I cannot stop. I see the truth but I'm too tired to speak it. I've said and said and now I forget. We are not wonderful lovely or loving. We are not kind or open or nurturing. We are not supportive supporting by being. We are cruel and superficial, we lie about our meanings. So what are words but a tool to deceive? If they are a tool why choose to believe? I can say anything and make it the truth, I can weave my story over and over, removing and adding, cutting and editing, moving and shaping life lived into a life of dreams. Am I dreaming or am I speaking? Am I in the box or is the box in me? Have I become so detached that I can again be with/in me? Is the box my body and am I the thing inside it? If I leave it how will you find me?
I am wasting away to nothing subsisting on eating my own words, but I don't make enough words to live on.
If I detach the two pieces of myself will I be permanently un-grounded? Floating always outside myself only connected by the pain of my self. Only connected by the pain. Only connected by the pain, my self, ballooning up. Only a balloon of myself floating above myself. Only connected by the pain, my self ballooning up. Only a balloon, my self, ballooning up this string thrumming the length of me to the hand tightly grasping resisting me pulling away. Detaching the two pieces of myself I become un-grounded floating outside myself only connected by the pain my self ballooning up this string thrumming the length to the hand tightly grasping not letting me float fully away. My physicality is breaking me apart. Too weighed down, too burdened I lose my lightness of being. I lose my sense of being. I lose what it means; being. I am broken with nowhere to turn for relief, for repair. I am broken and alone in my mind. What are the words? What are the words that mean what I'm saying? What are the words that feel what I'm feeling? I am losing words. I am losing. I am losing what it means to be me.