I live in a world of scurrying, pressing movements, back up, drive forward, stop. faces passing without a glance. identities blurred by ritual, expectation. drones in line, scraping. not thinking. we follow a pattern, but what pattern? why? unable to live as individuals, trend followers, consumers. each in his own car, motionless carried by an invisible purpose. trees and plants and floating clouds and insects and birds chirping but not seen or acknowledged. a life built on a vapor trail, a puff of smoke and nothing more, nothing to put feet on, terra firma. the desire is for mass, for texture, for form, for shape and smell and language and life. the embrace, the solid weight of person to person, person within person.
There is something about writing that is real, or it seems. it's so easy to lose it. moments needing to be revisited in constant movement. a coming together, a oneness, all tasks melted into one task. agendas obliterated. finding space to breath under the shadow.awake. alive. the end of alternation.