Sound saturates my present. Fog on my windshield, damp, obscuring distinctions in my realities.
The bent howl of a note blurs my vision, eye turns inward, soul splits open like parched earth.
Frustrated and impotent. Your tide ebbs, my faded crust crumbles, is ground into common dirt. Stuff of the earth.
**
I remember reaching, the familiar pinch of swollen dreams straining against imagined walls.
I could feel it then, in my fingers, my throat tightening as the intangible realness of sound filled me. Leaden arms, dull with potential, tingling with unrealized action.
Real life isn’t this way. I grasp and find only the sticky sickness of fermented delusion. The putrid remains of untended wants. The maddening dullness of paper.
Paper. Of all things to build ones life on — bleached, obsolescing paper. Thousands of years of ideas, used and reused, marrow sucked out and body discarded.
**
All I ever wanted was to be part of something beautiful.