This is the way they want it. They want you destroyed.
They want to destroy your mind. They’ll take you places and then leave you there, lost and searching for answers, for relief however brief---but the relief corrodes, deeper and deeper.
They want to destroy your attention, so they grab your eyeballs between their fingers and pull you so close that you see your reflection and can’t tell which image is which. They get behind and prod your brain, make your fingers move in ways you don’t want.
They want to destroy your body. Through every opening they can find, they’ll give you what you think you need and make you want beyond wanting. They’ll give you only that which will break your bonds and pull you apart, satisfying but never nourishing.
They want to destroy your time, for you to use it for their means and age quicker than the days are passing, until you’re pining for the past because it never gave you whiplash. They want nostalgia to be the thing you squeeze at night, to keep you rigid as the days roll on.
They want to destroy your faith, for you to put it in fewer and fewer things. They want you to distrust your neighbor, to fear the stranger. They want you to see shadows lurking everywhere.
They want to destroy your connection to others, to trade in true friends and family for contacts without contact. They want you to forget the fleshed face in front of you.
They want to destroy your connection to yourself, your soul’s memory, your ability to see what has grown and to remember the growing, to forget what lit the path past---and what darkened it. They want you so far astray you don’t even remember where you started, when your young steps were lighter and straighter.
They want to destroy your hope, your inclination to betterment, your sense of right and wrong, of what you thought you knew.
They want to destroy it all, save one thing: your desire. It is necessary for the consumption of all that is wretchedly served on your daily platter. Eat it, drink it, watch it, breathe it---consume without care for your body, your mind, or your soul---and compete for the scraps.
We are the fuel burned up by the machine. We are not valued; we are necessary. Remember: the city on the hill is propped up by bodies, and skeletons stitch its foundations. In the beginning, we help each other up, and eventually the realization hits: every pinnacle has a peak, and only a few can stand atop it. But of what use is getting to the top, when all you receive is a longer look down?
They want a world where you step over objects in your way, not realizing that the objects are your neighbors. They want a world where no eye winces at the squealing animal and no head turns toward the crying child. They want to destroy us, but they can’t. Only we can do that.
They want to destroy your mind. They’ll take you places and then leave you there, lost and searching for answers, for relief however brief---but the relief corrodes, deeper and deeper.
They want to destroy your attention, so they grab your eyeballs between their fingers and pull you so close that you see your reflection and can’t tell which image is which. They get behind and prod your brain, make your fingers move in ways you don’t want.
They want to destroy your body. Through every opening they can find, they’ll give you what you think you need and make you want beyond wanting. They’ll give you only that which will break your bonds and pull you apart, satisfying but never nourishing.
They want to destroy your time, for you to use it for their means and age quicker than the days are passing, until you’re pining for the past because it never gave you whiplash. They want nostalgia to be the thing you squeeze at night, to keep you rigid as the days roll on.
They want to destroy your faith, for you to put it in fewer and fewer things. They want you to distrust your neighbor, to fear the stranger. They want you to see shadows lurking everywhere.
They want to destroy your connection to others, to trade in true friends and family for contacts without contact. They want you to forget the fleshed face in front of you.
They want to destroy your connection to yourself, your soul’s memory, your ability to see what has grown and to remember the growing, to forget what lit the path past---and what darkened it. They want you so far astray you don’t even remember where you started, when your young steps were lighter and straighter.
They want to destroy your hope, your inclination to betterment, your sense of right and wrong, of what you thought you knew.
They want to destroy it all, save one thing: your desire. It is necessary for the consumption of all that is wretchedly served on your daily platter. Eat it, drink it, watch it, breathe it---consume without care for your body, your mind, or your soul---and compete for the scraps.
We are the fuel burned up by the machine. We are not valued; we are necessary. Remember: the city on the hill is propped up by bodies, and skeletons stitch its foundations. In the beginning, we help each other up, and eventually the realization hits: every pinnacle has a peak, and only a few can stand atop it. But of what use is getting to the top, when all you receive is a longer look down?
They want a world where you step over objects in your way, not realizing that the objects are your neighbors. They want a world where no eye winces at the squealing animal and no head turns toward the crying child. They want to destroy us, but they can’t. Only we can do that.
"Anniversary" - 9/12/2023
The petal caught in the deck planks makes me think of you. I pull it from its near-grave and twirl it in my fingers. These pink ones fall from the plant outside the bedroom window every few days. I specify the plant because there are many now. There have been a lot this year, my first full one without you.
Things hurt more after you left, because you used to handle that. You purred and licked my daily wounds, and I guess I’m not as good as you at it. Brava.
The plants have helped (as has therapy). So many plants: purchases from the market, castaways from the horticulturalist downstairs put out for nature to handle. Being nature, I often can’t stand it and they end up out here, on the balcony. I water them (more than I did you) and I feed them (no way as much you).
I kid.
I do with them what I can, but when I am away, and I am away---we make sure to get out of the house---when I am gone, they are at the mercy of the falling rain, the spin around the sun.
Inevitably the petals fall, and I occasionally offer them up to you. If they dry out and turn ugly (most do) I place them in the trash, and the good ones remain with you: a slowly building, dusty potpourri atop your little head.
I just wanted you to know what I’m doing, how I’m doing---
that as the petals fall these days, today, 365 days without you, I rise a little higher from my bed each morning and see life outside my window. And when the flowers cease and the trunks and roots are dried and snow-dusted, I will smile at the falling flakes, wonder about next year’s growth, and know that I will survive this winter.
Things hurt more after you left, because you used to handle that. You purred and licked my daily wounds, and I guess I’m not as good as you at it. Brava.
The plants have helped (as has therapy). So many plants: purchases from the market, castaways from the horticulturalist downstairs put out for nature to handle. Being nature, I often can’t stand it and they end up out here, on the balcony. I water them (more than I did you) and I feed them (no way as much you).
I kid.
I do with them what I can, but when I am away, and I am away---we make sure to get out of the house---when I am gone, they are at the mercy of the falling rain, the spin around the sun.
Inevitably the petals fall, and I occasionally offer them up to you. If they dry out and turn ugly (most do) I place them in the trash, and the good ones remain with you: a slowly building, dusty potpourri atop your little head.
I just wanted you to know what I’m doing, how I’m doing---
that as the petals fall these days, today, 365 days without you, I rise a little higher from my bed each morning and see life outside my window. And when the flowers cease and the trunks and roots are dried and snow-dusted, I will smile at the falling flakes, wonder about next year’s growth, and know that I will survive this winter.
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