I am unknown, unknowing, unknowable. Amounting to the same. I mean…What am I meaning? I glean…What am I gleaning? The purring of moments slink and drape themselves across my face, time is feline and graceful but get too close and that feral old bitch will bite. I am a silent limping disease scuttling across the carpet, a tangled mess of hair and faeces. I am the shit stained shoe and the ground walking upon myself. Look and tell me what you see. Don’t turn away. Tell me what have I done, what am I to be. I can only breathe, to breathe the air that is dying. To die in the air that is breathing. All is well. All is well. This is it. And all there is. Is it? I am a prisoner confined for my own safety. Wrapped in plastic sheets between rooms of a hallway I am not crawling through, between the past that never was because I cannot recall it, and the future that will never be because I cannot grasp it. Perpetually caught in the present like a gash in the world’s arse that never heals, full of shit and open, drawn apart. This is me. This is me. I saw you today. I am writing this hoping you will read it. I imagine you reading it now. That you will understand. But how can you when I can’t even begin… We are born with loss into madness. But what does it matter? In the end they’re just words. Words. Sounds signifying nothing. When the day is buried, words are all I have and even fuck up them do I, I unspectacularly vomit a shower of tumid sound, compressing uncompressing noise to hurl at you air from throat to tongue to teeth the timbre tumbles towards tomorrow today today tonight talking. Talking terrible talking that I can never do like you. The night is quiet the creatures make no sound. I am born again anew afresh atune aboom to the world each day, to all its magic and registers and frequencies. I hear them in my sleep, I weep their dust in my dreams. When the world is awake it does not see me, only in darkness I am truly seen. The cries, the crisis of life and lies, of people wanting to let go, who have done doing. I can hear. I hear them. But I am not like them. Even here. I am not like them here. They have history sewn into their sleeve into their eyes, woven into their wrists, tendons of time tether everything to everything when they kiss and touch and fuck, my wrists are cut open wide and bleed nothing. But I must remember. Remembering is escape. Remembering is forgetting. The world is unknown, unknowing, unknowable. Amounting to the same. I have never been here before. I do not wish to be here again. Someone is coming. Quick. I hear keys. I must finish. I am finishing. I am finished. I am.
Image credit: Sam Austin via Unsplash.