Sense
Nothing in common.
Children chase after soap bubbles and they grope and clap their hands together with outstretched arms like mechanical monkeys or otherwise crocodiles on their sides. It seems to me quite droll to chase something you know you cannot catch, but then I think again and find it isn’t very funny after all.
Do you ever stop and think? I don’t enough. I have to go and keep going because it’s harder to stay calm and wait and keep waiting. I figure it’s better to be the whirlwind than to be caught inside one. I have to get out what I want to say all in one breath or risk falling silent having forgotten what came before and what ought to come next. As long as I don’t stop I can look and feel like I know. Stop, and in your stead the whole world will start moving leaving you nothing to steady yourself with. Stop, and spiral into silence. Stop, and lose the will to go on. I’ll go on blindly if it means I won’t go blind and I figure this might not make much sense from the outside looking in but I can live with that. Would I then also prefer my hands be on the yoke when spinning uncontrollably so I can instead plummet to certain death more straightways? All the same I’m going where they’re going so what gives, why the hesitation?
I’ll be late again but I don’t mind because surely it can only be better if I don’t have to stop and wait for the next one to come when they pull away without me. The big body leaving now reveals another left behind and she reminds me of someone or maybe she is that person or maybe she could be for me for the time being at least. It is possible not to think about women just as one does not think about death.
Cymbals crash when the children shriek and cry with sick laughter inevitably sending a siren wailing from some dank and lonely bottom of a well or otherwise a young mother’s pram. Every day I miss the bus and every day I hear the children from a little further away until I will have to tell only by the soundless movements of younger mouths myself having sunken into a spiralled well of my own.
Newborns are like the elderly and the elderly like newborns and they must look out for each other and protect each other from the treacherous in-between. One end turns to face the other perhaps in an act of love but insodoing protrudes and exposes its soft underbelly to then fall fatefully onto a knife’s edge severing our lovers for all eternity.
If the deathbed is a cradle is new love the same as love about to end? Love must die because its birth was an error and songs about love are more often than not written for the wrong person and admittedly I’ve said it so many times it’s lost all its meaning by now but please suffer me once more to impress upon thine heart that this shall be the very last I spake of it.
Psychological analysis lost all interest for me from the moment that I became aware that men feel what they imagine they feel.
Love is hollow and is its own heart-shaped box. It self-consciously calls to mind itself and reaffirms itself as flat representations of itself but having no referent the final finger points into empty space. But I say this emptiness also ennobles it because who would want to love with good cause or for a reason? Sense isn’t sensual so we want things unexplainable or otherwise at least unexplained which is why I can say I miss you so much I never want to see you again. Love is a void under velvet felt in our bones because a carpet must be magic for it ever to take flight.
Maybe there is nothing to explain and there are no secret depths but only all the things we already know and always have. You pretend to learn but of course you don’t but unawares you already knew and always have. Then everything is simpler than it seems and it’s all so simple it makes you feel stupid but of course simple answers are some of the hardest to come by.
