Blue Turning Grey
Falling/Flying.
Sometimes, I think the world should not exist.
And yet it does.
The world is full of beautiful things; spectacular things. The Aurora Borealis. starlight, the moon, constellations, cellular division, stethoscopes, radiation, irises, poppy fields, the cascade that occurs when you trip over - the little flecks of light as cosmic radiation enters through your eyes, passing through like nothing has ever occurred. Like you don't exist.
And I'm stepping backwards. The sunlight is echoing over me, a warm, fatuous sunbeam. Is this what stirred me so from clay? All those old stories, they're just words. Words change - the semantics do. I have no time for change. The moment never changes, we live in a constant moment and nothing can touch that quivering inkling of consciousness in the fields of ignorance, folly and avarice that seems to make the human race significant.
We all seem to feel afraid. Afraid, afraid, of the doctors, the nurses, the hypodermics future, aging and the feeble moment from the tenterhooks of life to death.
It started.
What started?
The visions of course.
What visions?
The ghastly spectator to us all dying. Death. Only Death. Bones, reaching out to touch me. I could feel it in the night. The stained bones, running over my ribcage, teasing out spasms in my intestines, in my head.
I walk down the street and he's beckoning to me, golden grin shining in the rainfall. And I cannot avoid it. They told me, the woman in a white coat - Death's Harlot - she told me it was all fading away. Dementia they call it. And that breaks my heart. I know that forgetting things doesn't seem so bad. but the rate I'm forgetting at...I've forgotten my children's names. I'm not an old man, I don't feel old. But my eyes are turning from blue to grey. But my life is a triumph against the odds. And I don't want to send my last unknowing to everything and everyone, a living relic of a previous time long gone.
And this is why I'm starting to run , run into oblivion. I am not waiting for Death, I'm going to run into it.
Everything is ready. Notes made, will written. And I'm still thinking why am I doing this? And not everything is ready. There was still so much to do. Looking back, my life was not a triumph, more a reference in a footnote of the history of trivial deeds. A cycle of nothingness, of all the queer things that we fill out lives with to avoid thinking about death. Bus tickets, income taxes, blankets, cross stitching, fishing, cholesterol, calorie counting, vitamin supplements, pet goldfish, television shows and shit comedy usually written by some middle class bastard who knows nothing.
That, well, can anyone say they would miss that? This life is a juxtaposition of the marvelous, the inane and the depressing.
And I'm afraid of death. But I'm more afraid of not dying. I wish i could spend the rest of my life on this car park rooftop. But I can't.
So I'm running for it. Feet pounding, heart pounding faster. Brown hair in my eyes, sweat running down my back. And this world may exist for now, but I am erasing it with every step.
And it is one giant leap for me, one tiny step in time.
And I'm not falling. I'm flying.
I'm fucking flying!
Watch me, Death!
I'm flying.
And yet it does.
The world is full of beautiful things; spectacular things. The Aurora Borealis. starlight, the moon, constellations, cellular division, stethoscopes, radiation, irises, poppy fields, the cascade that occurs when you trip over - the little flecks of light as cosmic radiation enters through your eyes, passing through like nothing has ever occurred. Like you don't exist.
And I'm stepping backwards. The sunlight is echoing over me, a warm, fatuous sunbeam. Is this what stirred me so from clay? All those old stories, they're just words. Words change - the semantics do. I have no time for change. The moment never changes, we live in a constant moment and nothing can touch that quivering inkling of consciousness in the fields of ignorance, folly and avarice that seems to make the human race significant.
We all seem to feel afraid. Afraid, afraid, of the doctors, the nurses, the hypodermics future, aging and the feeble moment from the tenterhooks of life to death.
It started.
What started?
The visions of course.
What visions?
The ghastly spectator to us all dying. Death. Only Death. Bones, reaching out to touch me. I could feel it in the night. The stained bones, running over my ribcage, teasing out spasms in my intestines, in my head.
I walk down the street and he's beckoning to me, golden grin shining in the rainfall. And I cannot avoid it. They told me, the woman in a white coat - Death's Harlot - she told me it was all fading away. Dementia they call it. And that breaks my heart. I know that forgetting things doesn't seem so bad. but the rate I'm forgetting at...I've forgotten my children's names. I'm not an old man, I don't feel old. But my eyes are turning from blue to grey. But my life is a triumph against the odds. And I don't want to send my last unknowing to everything and everyone, a living relic of a previous time long gone.
And this is why I'm starting to run , run into oblivion. I am not waiting for Death, I'm going to run into it.
Everything is ready. Notes made, will written. And I'm still thinking why am I doing this? And not everything is ready. There was still so much to do. Looking back, my life was not a triumph, more a reference in a footnote of the history of trivial deeds. A cycle of nothingness, of all the queer things that we fill out lives with to avoid thinking about death. Bus tickets, income taxes, blankets, cross stitching, fishing, cholesterol, calorie counting, vitamin supplements, pet goldfish, television shows and shit comedy usually written by some middle class bastard who knows nothing.
That, well, can anyone say they would miss that? This life is a juxtaposition of the marvelous, the inane and the depressing.
And I'm afraid of death. But I'm more afraid of not dying. I wish i could spend the rest of my life on this car park rooftop. But I can't.
So I'm running for it. Feet pounding, heart pounding faster. Brown hair in my eyes, sweat running down my back. And this world may exist for now, but I am erasing it with every step.
And it is one giant leap for me, one tiny step in time.
And I'm not falling. I'm flying.
I'm fucking flying!
Watch me, Death!
I'm flying.