A Dreamscape of Real Happenings.

Am I just to accept that it is my mind, pumping chemicals and hormones into my defenseless body?

Is it just that, this tearing longing?

I have never experienced love without pain. Never.

I know I must pull back. But I've already stepped out, it's too late. My love will come to it's eventual conclusion. There is harmony, yes. But not in reality. Harmony for one, discord for the other. My choice is already tattooed into my flesh.

How I should have thought, when I was young. Pricking and branding these meanings into myself. At least I shall always know truth.

Now I bear witness.

ENTROPY is our god. I shall patiently wait. All soft comfort and denial. I shall soothe, all in nurturing and softness. I shall assist in chrysalis, and pupation.

And then I shall be cast off, as training wheels on an old bike were. The kind with streamers and all of the childish good intentions therein. I know it. I fight it, shaking my head and grinding my fingers into the divets of my thighs.

Remember my girl, the curse you bear. Borne upon me through centuries of blood, and sadness, and toil. No hearthsong, no poppet could shield me.

I give it up.

Like you would put a baby bird in cotton balls, hoping it's mother would smell and save it.

The snow fell. Not clean, but grey and numbing.

I remember the bite. My foot crushing bone. My will defying tradition.

Traitorous, I was called. Shunned and shamed. Until I came to a new land. A place where my hands could find nothing old imprinted, not a scream or curse or even joy.

A newness surrounded me. And my Mother rejoiced.

I wasn't supposed to, but I did. I fought. And bear the scars as my burden.

What right does a sacrifice have to live? Born of this purpose, only to defy it. The one bite.

And then nothing. I am not to speak of it.

Warned. Threatened. Cajoled.

The calling...the lokk. It clangs in my head, beats through my breast. RUN. HOWL. But most of all, RUN.

But my fingers do not speak, they only click. With....finality.

Don't You Feel Them?

These chains that round our wrists, the gossamer shackles binding our ankles to the ravenous past.

Years run through fingers like sand, rubbing our skin to wrinkles and our hands to rheumy knobs. A fire burns inside my chest. A need, a compulsion.

To leave my mark, to make something, be a part of something larger than myself. But this is the year when pontification will flow like a broken tap; the feeling of forced transition.

FUCK.

One Pill, Two Pills, Three Pills Four.

Every day I feel pulled farther and farther away. Away from myself, my loves, my circle.

My dreams are vivid and wrenching, all ice and snow and keen-edged tall bars. A slope of ice to be climbed.

My hands were cut and bleeding, knees raw. I could feel them throbbing through my sleep. I kept sliding, slipping, cursing, and begging.

I never made it. The dream morphed into something mundane, I was grocery shopping. But I still feel the taste of pain and rage in my mouth. My hands clench, and I am shocked to see them unscathed; clean and lacquered.

My hands are soft. Once they were rough with work and will, strong with an iron grasp. They are the hands of a child now, not a warrior. The wolf inside me paces, teeth showing.

One callus, on my right thumb from plucking strings and warbling in time. I will find it. Somehow I will throw a grappling hook into the well of my subconscious and I shall go back there, to that frozen place, that cutting wall.

And I will win.

Cracking and Crying, Skipping all the Way.

Fight the sighing echos of ghosts that whisper in my ear. I'll slide across the wormy and leaf-rotted sidewalk into a bright place, luminous and distracting.

A loud mechanical voice will boom in my ear, causing what I imagine cascade failure looks like to a machine as the color explodes and drips down my eye/brain.

Once again to the sidewalk. Hop over that syringe, it'll sting you. Swerve past that refuse, it'll stain you.

Walk again. Press buttons. Get confused. Press more buttons. Finally give up and dial the number on your phone.

Is this the stairway to heaven? Or just another elevator shaft to fall down, perhaps. But I feel so unencumbered and unbound. How new.

This Strange Eon.

So many choices loom. But the problem isn't the choosing, it's the chooser. You cannot be chosen if a person cannot choose.

I'll relax into it. I trust this time, and have no expectations, no fears really. It is strange the ease of it though, I had not marked it's passing and was stunned upon examination of time. Time is a tether, a silken rope.

The unbreakable coded chain elongates and bridges before me. Walk in a beat close to my heart beat. And be silent.