3:42 - 4:02 am
There are not enough days left to bring balance to the ratio of nights spent alone as opposed to nights with company. Wake up sunday and find remains of the weekend in the trash. Fragments of lost time. The throw away enchiladas, coffee cugs, banana peels, pineapple juice for hawaiian sea breezes straight from the warm beaches of waikiki. mahola. as the ancient hawaiians once said... the tree that bears only spoiled fruit is not worthy of the ground its seed were planted. Sections of memory, important and isolated at the time. In that moment. As they appeared and before they disappear like ghosts in foggy passageways. The ones that get away. These are ruined with summary words. My weekend was good was fine. This expresses close to nothing. This expresses 'i do not wish to speak of my weekend.' You have to read 100 pages in one sitting. You have to become a genius. The one who is capable of all theory. The theory of everything. The one with four eyes pointed each direction and is always first to respond to a crisis call on his telephone hotline. I sleep in my bed so soundly perhaps because i dont touch head to pillow without chemicals reducing me into a sack of potatoes. dragging behind its reluctant body the unexpected protagonist struggles with vague messages regarding his existence. a death struggle, in deep throes, a guttural outburst, flames licking his teeth, he must exist and he must understand his limited time as a sense of urgency, palpable, where he can get things done whereas others flounder and get left behind, basking in the warm glow of their old memories while the stronger ones forge forward into unknown, potentially hostile environment. plunging forward like arrows through apples. the spirit spears it and shipwrecks sink to the bottom of marianas trench. deep below our understanding. a plea for life. a plea for sanity. he must be released and if he is something close to enlightened he must be exposed to the elements of his path. the truth and the warmth of his light. if there is a spark of curiosity yet to be extinguished in his eyes, may he walk through condescending forests, where great trunks shutter with disapproval, in the eyes of nature we are all pests and no matter how close to nature you get, they are not on your side. i climb mountains and sit by creeks examining what the emptiness and fullness both of my surroundings, what is translated into my head, for these thoughts are closer to some sort of spiritual enlightenment, because of the purity of the moment involved. this spiritual shit im not sure i buy but the emptiness of mind out there in the forest, the at home peaceful removal of home, the windowless domain of green and lush gardens, natural tendencies for beautiful arrangements of things, but yet.... but yet.... yet the forest groups you in with the tree cutters and the environment killers, the evil and anti-forest people. you are no different than them to them. they are no different than you to them. they are indifferent to any distinctive characteristics that separate you as individuals, with your own lungs and opinions, and style of dress and skin color. only the specialists. the ones that enter the city to gather samples. the ones that send soaring radiation messages through rain cycles to forestry. sleepytime music sounds through this dark green forest, the deep dark green of moss in the absence of light, angelic voices, almost inhuman in their realness, their authentic human tones and cracks. the type to make the sky split open and gold pour out. the one that makes volcanoes erupt in defiance because we call them dormant. dead. if i were constantly called weak or obsolete. i might also blow my top. ...aaaaaaaand time!
