This is me. Here, writing on this page to you.
A strange forum for us to meet, let's agree. 2 dimensional. Thought compressed into letters set against an all white backdrop. In the middle of the night, the electric glare so bright you have to squint. Turn on the little desk lamp, the one that's dim, make it easier for you to be here with me, on this page, in this moment of conflux of eyes and words and light.
We should both be asleep, but there are times when sleep isn't befitting. It's not the thing we need. We crave a congress of spirit, a pagan revue of throttled fantasy, a synthesis of images better left unspoken. We lose something of ourselves each day, biting back our wonder. We turn into something categorically confined.
It's too easy to let life slip into something conventional. It's easy to let things lie as they fall, to allow ourselves to be processed into something segregated and sanitary, or to allow ourselves to be swept to the side and lamented only by ourselves.
It's been so long since I've written anything direct it's like my fingers are numb sausages tracing through ice. I can't break through to what I want to form your mind around, even as it sits there, hovering, like a shadow of someone about to be seen behind a curtain.
Drunkards yell in the street outside, gypsy cabs tooting as they pass. Then it is quiet, relatively, meaning the absence of yelling, the hum of an alleyway fan.
Congress. How can a word mean something simultaneously dry as cow shit and wet as coitus? Bovine legislators slouching through ursine assemblies, or two people fucking, copulating sweaty, slapping and grunting and spitting? But such is how laws are made, perhaps, in the real world. In the dusty heat with the iron smell of blood everywhere, territory negotiated by desire. You can smell the scent of this power on the marble colonnades as you cross the street of the capitol.
It's easier to let others speak up to die in shame in front of everybody. To wait and see if your life pans out lucky. To mop up their bitter innards with your white bread and blame them for the acid bile residue left in your tight throat.
There's no escaping our hunger. But I hide it well with rocks in my mouth, sucking a vapid stare into the screen. Each moment we allow to pass, our ancestors screaming. We are too tense to be human, we have no time for our own feelings.
This is me. Writing on this page to you.