"i figure it's more like dreaming..."

"...slipping away for a spell. being someplace not in the current. truth be told, i'm in no hurry to be saddled with such knowledge. it's not quite priority one. no, sir. but that's not to say we don't think about it. gamble it's something most not care to admit, figure it's more of the private nature. personal. but we do it. 'cause maybe sometimes it's easier, or hastier, or something of the sort. or maybe just too mysterious to leave be. every one person has their own conviction. myself, like i said, i figure it's something like dreaming. and i stir about, keep on going, like maybe nothing really happened. but it's all up here, playing out, the way you conjure it does. but i fancy it a secret, best saved for the end."

simulacrum

cosmically, almost on a whim, we split through the crowd just behind "mccullough's" but still in front of the beach. it was wonderful. inviting and beautiful. "i want to live this forever," she said, the one roller skate squeaking under her good leg.
it was the feeling of joy. it was the feeling of relief.
of being able to sing. of being able to laugh.
of that rush at the end of a tunnel.
of that singular tear sledding down the space between your nose and your cheek.
of a never-ending roller-coaster, the clicks of the tracks the only reference in time.
of that next breath. and of that last one, too.
"i want to live this forever," i said. and the sun rushed up as if it needed to keep pace with the crashing waves. i readjusted my eye patch and took her fingers in my hand. but i hadn't realized it.

there was a change

stop.
what?
stop.
stop what?
this. you're different. you need to stop.
i don't understand.
don't be stupid. you're not the same.
i'm not the same?
no, asshole. you're not.
i don't get it.
what happened?
what do you mean?
there was a change. you stopped being you. you started being something else.
you're being ridiculous.
i'm not. i can tell. you're not the same person.
you're not making sense.
you're an act. you're a character.
you're insane.
you're too cool for yourself. you're not yourself. what happened?
i'm still myself.
no. you're not. go back to being you. go back to being you.
i don't understand.
you're doing it right now. you're someone else. it's not you. you're something else.
fuck you.
see. you're more asshole now than ever.
no i'm not.
yeah. you are. you were more fun back then. more of a goof. more of a sweetheart. more of you.
i still am.
no. you're not! are you hearing me?
are you hearing me? i'm still the same.
no...but i wish you were.

coma, coma, coma.

there are fractal planes at the edge of space, at the very tip of the hands that creation bore. wormhole fragments split into semicircle tubes, conscious pieces of past and present, locked into each other like venus flytraps. correlated, symmetrical, and perfect in shape. they speak softly, nomads and nuns, in the corners of our mouths. they tell us the truths, like nebulas on their death beds, born to pass without ever knowing purpose or pleasure. there are million, billions, currently swimming through empty black, through empty dreams - spilling into the fabrics of dark, unreachable accents. i've no longer the power, nor the desire, to unfold the mysteries of their being. at the edge of space we'll wait for their signs.

"i love you, cavraletta"

i love you like the sun.

we spoke aloud, embedded in the ether, like fireflies in the mist, violent and obscene, shaking the trees to the ground.

i love you like orion.

a collapsing, a folly, defined by the unexperienced, movements not becoming of what we truly were.

i love you.

creatively speaking, behind shadows and moonlight, making the most of inevitables, making the least out of what never was.




cavraletta, in the moon. cavraletta, in the light. cavraletta, dream of day. cavraletta, dream of night.

-Cameron Bordwell (1872)

"we know far less than led to believe..."

...and then his eyes shifted and settled into recess, his words trailing off, as if to become yet another fleeting fact, fading to fiction in the autumn air. I watched him, fixated on his gaze, as he immersed himself in whatever was unfolding, materializing, in his mind. I worried, albeit briefly, that everything was finally catching up to him, that maybe somehow this man, this indestructible being, the epitome of strength and selflessness I'd come to idolize, to emulate, to cherish, to love, had finally broken under the weight of it all. We sat there for a few minutes more. I let the moment envelope me like sunlight, hoping that it wouldn't be the last.

in the hole, two years gone

timothy sicretta spent most of his time like the rest of them, tucked away in that hole on the outskirts, on the edge of space, waiting for someone to find him, to recover him, to dig him out of the shell he fabricated for himself. secretly, though, he enjoyed it. he enjoyed the solitude. the reclusiveness. it was him, whether he care to admit it or not, it fit him. he wrote this, quietly, in his sleep one night. it goes:

I couldn't tell you 'bout my lovers,
Nor 'bout the time of day
Or things that glow in murky swamps,
And things that fade away
Or those who come and stay a while
And share all that they know
Or those who see the gloom in men,
And simply choose to go
The facts remain, however trite,
That we are simple beings
Whose place in life is smaller than,
A token in the sea

i never understood it. i never tried to comprehend what might have been going through his head. it'd been too long anyway for me to even begin to realize what may have been going on in his mind. "it's in the dreams," he'd say, and i'd believe him. he did have quite peculiar dreams.