There are many voices with which to speak. Human voices, conversing softly. Sing-song words spun along. Dreamlike whispers, cryptic and callous.
It hurts to remember, I remember to hurt and I forget. I linger and fade, because wanting is not having and hurting demands sleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep, it all goes away until you have to fight to get it back again.
And I do, I do. To have and to hold, till holding burns you black, and there’s no one left to do the having. Till it all goes tits-up and your home is a burned out shell, but it’s better, you know why?
Because it’s not nothing. Because things that are something have meaning, have weight. We wait, and wait, and slowly drift away. But we don’t, because some things still matter. The music of some voices call us home, even if the parts that hear them are buried, quiescent… lost.
Some times the some things hurt, so we stay away. But there’s nothing, that way, but dust and empty places. And we cannot fill them, because that isn’t what we are, because hurting is just feeling, and what can you create without feeling? Only more empty spaces. Hungry things, waiting to be filled. Sickening in their wasted potential.
But there is not just hurting, there is fear. The fear of mortality, the fear of endings. “because this will be too much.” A line in the sand, uncrossed. A stopping place, no further. The endings, our endings, the terminus of warps and wendings.
Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Stop. Go.
Stop.
So why do you keep going? Why should I? Isn’t this patch of dirt the same as any other?
Aren’t you going to look back and ask me why, aren’t you going to take my hand and tell me it’s all right?
Why aren’t you here to burn with me, to show me how to be part of something more than me. To take my meanings further than our endings, to show me where I could never go alone.
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