0 - I'd like to grind gravity into a fine power
27 May 2021Domna Augusta
Papa died two days ago. I remember when he told me, sat at the terrace of this cafe, one winter night in Paris.
''The absence of something is still something.'' I think he was trying to justify him leaving.
I suppose that's when I was first acquainted with the concept of complete nullity in a practical way.
Made it that much easier to forgive myself for walking away, as well. Maybe he gave me the wings.
Reason or justification? I think they're called gypsy wings. I wouldn't call it freedom. Maybe an addiction.
It's no wonder I left. I always believed in chasing fortune, but maybe I was chasing a fix. In the game, or my new rig.
There's always something to fix.
I guess I really am my father's daughter. I can see it written in the stars, when I set a new course.
I wish I'd have picked up a better trait. Than to always consider my next flight of fancy.
Chance would have it, I'd not see him again before he'd pass.
There just always comes a time when I need to cut loose. All systems go.
Sometimes I can't help but think it, before I even will it.
The ship has sailed. Please, catch another.
I think I am more like a cat.
Skittish, suspecting and easily scared. Circumspect, even. But I circumvent.
Circling around issues is part of my problem. I find it titillating. It's always at the tip of my tongue.
I suppose if I do not have it, maybe a cat would. But I digress, like Alice to Dinah.
It's not all black and white, sometimes I like to triturate at it like at the keys of a grand piano.
Maybe I'm blue.
I divagate but I like to paint, as well. I was made to wander and lust for more land to explore.
I approach notions like abstract colors. But I'm not blind to my own faults.
Constantly departed, recursively reversing in narration, paths or positions, I begin, or rather,
I can't even start to even wonder...
What am I running away from?
Sometimes I fear it'll catch me like loose cargo freight at the turn of a corridor,
lost on a collision course, tilted to a sudden stop, to a point on my sad, sterile mug.
The gritty texture of coal mixed in, and a grossing amount of iron, in liquid form.
Alone, up there or down under, systems of stars, systems of thoughts, in nothingness.
Oh, the gravity.
I get forgetful.
Maybe it's just a bad dream. Maybe I have a fever.
I'll worry about that later, until there's no later.
For now, I'll squander the little time I have, in laying it out. Me, or the other.
I might have spread myself too thin, I admit. I need to get myself in a bunch, again.
It's as if my own ship could desert me, if it could. I like to hone my senses on a jagged edge,
like consumed with thought, and toying with the blade of a knife. Picking at the dirt under my fingernails.
Someday that dirt will pick at me. Yet I paint the claws black too. And roses red, like wine.
I suppose I don't sit tight, so I can't really stick.
To be weighed down, soldered onto solid ground, chained into an endless loading dock,
of pointlessness, repetitive thoughts, environments and mindset. That's my nightmare, in various shades of rigor.
I will find the path of least resistance. Always.
And strike to release myself. Like a charged up tension between air and ground, I constantly feel for the time,
when a burst of intangible pressure will come, and set me forth, like a steam machine into a new void,
a new darkness to explore and map out. I get a rush thinking about the next bolt, the next garden fence
I'll climb...
All these words...Because, compulsively. I'd like to fill in a blank. Keep a record, or track. A point of measure.
Maybe to measure my own madness, or any sort of progress, climb or descent. Above or below, beyond, par or subpar.
So I'll lay a scribble or two, just to put meaning onto paper, maybe because it's hard to seize and trap,
otherwise, like fireflies in a field on a summer night, in the vast intensity, immensity of the dark.
Day 0.