A Collection of Spectacles

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Thoughts come and go, rapidly jumping from one thing to the next. Sometimes thoughts enter as if stuck on repeat. A tape recorder plays its message and is then rewound, and played again. 

We sit together on the porch outside. It is six, maybe seven, in the morning. Her face is barely visible. Together, we fail to understand why some men can’t separate liking someone from wanting to sleep with them. As if, to truly like someone you have to fuck them. 

An Imaginary Excursion: He and I. Me and him.  Intertwining. We conjoin for extended moments and then separate. The motion is repeated. Over. Over. Skin’s pressed to skin. Shallow breaths. 

It all comes over me at once, a cascading waterfall of flesh, inching down my sides and back. Up and down. Up. Down. Enveloping everything. 

[exit scene]

It’s three, maybe four, in the morning. I run my hand over face and feel a blemish on my forehead. Every time I feel it, it’s like I’m touching a foreign object, something that shouldn’t be there. I will proceed to pick at this all day. 

His eyes, blue–wait no maybe brown, and lifeless scan the room. He is incapable of looking at anyone directly for more than a few seconds. When his glances are returned, his eyes dart in different directions. 

Later, he lies face down, face pressed into the carpet. He’s one of those you name the drug, I’ve tried it, kind of men. I find something faintly beautiful in this.  I ask, “So what do you like to do?”

“For fun?”

“Yeah.”

He says something about how he likes to smoke and drink and-I cut him off. 

“No, NO. Other than that. Everyone has their something, a something that makes them tick. What’s yours?”

By now I’ve consumed an obscene amount. It takes so much to make me feel comfortable now, to make conversation flow more easily. 

Finally, he admits that he likes to play the guitar. 

Now I’m sitting and wondering if I’m thought about ever, if only in a passing whisper, a quick pitiful fracture in time. I feel indifferent at this point, surprisingly, because I know I’m not. I’m keeping a firm grip on matters long gone and those that have never occurred (and probably never will). 

How am I going to love?! I don’t know its shape, its form. I don’t know what it looks like.

Inside, daylight sneaks through my window, teasing me with it’s warmth. Outside, hints of Spring fill the air.

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My views on dreams, as they have changed over time. 

In the beginning: Dreams happen infrequently. They are nonsensical, like collages of random scenes, carelessly pieced together. They’re meaningless to me. 

The second step: Dreams are seemingly random, but if deciphered, they reveal hidden notions I hold about myself, the people around me, my desires, my wants and dislikes. 

The third plateau (déjà rêvé): Dreams and their meanings become increasingly abstract. I’ll try to explain.

Something happens in front of me. A daily occurrence, say my friends are having a discussion. I stare, watching their faces, and like a picture coming into focus, what happens in front of me becomes clear. It transcends all we perceive reality to be and takes on a more picturesque, movie-like form. In the same way that film directors can take actual occurrences and make them more photographic, eyes that are open and receptive to the world can stare at a scene and make it more cinematic. Then, they can deem something that’s seemingly foreign to be  anything but, leading the mind to ask, “Have I been here before?”  In turn, the subconscious will provide the answer and it will rise to the surface of your thoughts with unparalleled buoyancy. The scene in question was something that was viewed before, if only for the breadth of a second, in a dream. 

A dualistic nature is revealed. The hypothesis proposed in the second step is affirmed as one purpose of dreams, but another, a more intriguing one is discovered. They are windows that, if peered into at just the right angle,  can reveal future occurrences (or rather, future possibilities). It’s just my thought, but maybe thats why it’s possible to feel as though you’ve already visited every place you still have yet to see. 

I’m unravelling, coming apart.

The plumes of a bird,

The petals of a flower,

The inner folds, 

creases

are detaching themselves from one another

my mind has come to bloom

im being honest here and nowhere else because if you cant be honest when you write then swallow ink and lead dismantle your keyboard there is no point. if you cant write even when it makes you look silly or stupid or hurt like your skins been slowly meticulously violently detached from each and every nerve ending then…theres no point in painting landscapes with words if theyre bound to be set aflame.

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