and suddenly i’m flying, high above my mind and the wars that trouble my soul.
but then comes a thought, a whisper, a trembling vision, weak and displaced.
but it takes me over nonetheless, and its weight drags me in a downward spiral towards the earth and hell below.
and i crash into the earth, hard, and at once become a heap of fire and thought.
and my thoughts are made of flesh, and i cut into them with a knife, dissecting their parts, covering my hands in their blood.
and their blood stains my hands.
desperately i try and wash it off.
for i am no murderer, except in my mind, but this blood paints me as one.
but the blood stays, whether on flesh or mind, i cannot tell.
i cannot tell anything, for lies are my sustenance, deceit is my antidote.
my mouth has been shut hard by this fall, my mind given free reign to birth new and horrible monsters that torment my spirit and tear my heart into little bits and pieces that i try and hide in the dirt of my doubt.
they don’t exist, i tell myself.
i want to fly again, but i don’t know how.
it seems that only the ignorant fly.
and i have eaten of the tree, forbidden, and the knowledge of good and evil has taken my innocence away.
and peace followed my innocence, leaving knowledge and fear to wage war upon my weak and untrained heart.
war, war, war.
why can’t i stop this battle?
why can’t i put an end to this madness?
why can’t i halt the bleeding?
but like a river, these thoughts bleed forth galaxies fresh, over rock and emotion, running faster, faster, faster.
and i bathe in the river, for my hands told me to.
soon all of my skin is red, stained with blood, thoughts, the same.
my mind reels, and my heart flees.
i embrace each thought like a friend, but they are not friends that i love.
they are friends that i know.
and one of them, lost and passionate, tells me to leave the river, and to wash off in the fountain of life.
what is that?
but the thought is already gone, murdered by his friends.
why can i not simply be?
why must i try?
why must i strive?
fingers tight, rope loose.
or is the rope tight and my fingers loose?
i do not know.
perhaps there is no rope, and my fingers are free.
if i let the truth out, would the truth set me free?
if i painted a painting, would the painting color me?
maybe i can paint me.
if i let go, would God?
or maybe it would just go.
i’m afraid that if i sing, the song will sing me.
i’m afraid that if i try, i will only try me.
i’m afraid that if i cry, it will only be me.
i’m afraid that if i feel, i will only feel me.
so instead i think.
and in this ocean i drown, willingly.