And who are the bugs that get into the house?
What are the parts that explain your existence?
What do you want of the self?
Of this character?
Writing, thinking, persuading, retreating, eliminating, picturing.
Athleting, playing, sillying, procreating, responsibling, acting.
Coupling, wandering, surfing, searching, seeking.
Finding the same things over and over.
What is found?
The thinker.
The beauty.
The awe.
The amusement.
The color.
The playing.
The poisoning is both a retreat and a waiting.
Dumbing down retreat, distracting, befuddlement as play.
Mind expansion as seeking, desiring to understand more . . .
But not really.
More of a resetting, a reminder that all the color, the subtlety and giddiness is already within you.
Poisonings just a retreat back to the act and the nonsense of men.
Not a believer in much of anything.
Big bang or Adam and Eve.
Who the fuck cares?
Someone else’s ideas attempting to become yours.
The multiverse is fabricating forever-now.
What do you need proven to yourself?
What more could nature tell you?
Birth, growth, decay and death are known.
The stars and skies make the living a certain way.
The elements flux with the seasons.
The seasons twitch with the motions of the solar system.
The solar system swings with the sway of the galaxy.
The galaxy bends a milky way.
The universe bursts out from the unknown multitudes.
Infinity forces it all to come back to you.
What’s to know?
What could a storytelling human possibly do to tilt an axis in this charade?
Dancing with others, doing a hustle – it’s all shadow dancing on walls that don’t change.
On groundhog days in a turntable, merry-go-round scene.
We go in circles.
We hide and seek.
We lose and find.
All for our perpetual giggling, crying and awe.
It’s a puzzle that was always solved.
An open lock that never needed a key.
An unguarded fortress of emptiness that seemed like a treasure holder.
A simply lovely projection.