Emotions surge and purge. Push you over
the edge and make you climb up again and then it hits you. You become
a conductor. A superconductor. Electricity runs through your body and
you light up in a room filled with gas. I'm not talking about jews
here, so save me your accusations.
One day you started to count your
blessings, but then you lost count. It sucked ass, because you had to
start counting again, but you forgot where to begin. Then you made an
end to it. Not your life, but your blessings. You thought you could
do well without and you were right.
At some point you saved up all your
manergy to exercise your femininity, but you were never able to hide
your vagina. Some say you have fallen from grace, but the problem was
that you were standing on it in the first place. Now you try to hide,
but there's nobody seeking in between the mush. Just saying.
Yesterday you took MDMA when you went
to a birthday party where everybody was sitting on a table. They had
just eaten. You had too. You felt uncomfortable. So did they.
Sometimes you wake up in the middle of
the night. At that point you don't think about the meaning of life.
You just try to fall asleep again. There is no poetry in your life.
You cannot remember your dreams anymore and you cannot remember the
last time you did remember one. That's kind of sad.
You're life has flattened out. At least
so it seems. Perhaps there is a desert in front of you. You've always
dreamed (figuratively, see above) about creating something from
scratch. Maybe you can create a forest. Plant tree by tree. Just like
that man in that documentary you didn't see.
Yesterday you told me that you wanted
to live an orgasmic life. It took you another pinkie of B-quality
hard drugs to come to that conclusion but I didn't doubt your
intentions. Those were clear.
“Not from orgasm to orgasm, because
that is only shallow,” you said while you were waving your hands
uncontrollably. “But a constant orgasm.” An all-time high where
your head is constantly stimulated by external impulses. You like to
live the life where gooey stuff keeps coming out of you and throw it
at a white canvas. It seems a fertile idea.
But I think you need a cataclysm. An
earthquake inside your head. Perhaps an enema. Something to cleanse
you of your past so you will be you again. Perhaps it is just me. I
feel you haven't been yourself lately. You can do better than this.
You can become yourself more.
Push. Push harder. Push harder into me.
Your emotions surge and purge. Like they did before and you should
have faith that they will do the same thing again and again. Take me.
Take me into you.
Together we can become an alloy. Become
strong as steel. Leave our brittle bones behind. Perhaps then we can
have a constant orgasm. We carefully hold on to the safety of string
theories that keeps us in a constant vibration.
Shake me. Take me. Elevate me. Make me
supreme. Make me a human-being. Make me into something else. Morph my
matter into new forms and together we will discover new places.
Indistinct, we will shed our skins and leave this life behind and
find a new one.
You fantasized about jumping from rock
to rock and so on while they were suspended in the air. Gently giving way to your
weight, but not crashing down. You wished to breathe in the digits
from a video game and expected that some day you were able to breathe
out ones and zeroes. Things are never as binary as you can think of
them.
There are emotions that you cannot
push.
