Howling At The Moment

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Night begins day, day begins night – these cycles of construction are useless measures we use to fracture the moments that soften our bones, there is no true separation, only segregation. Day and night are one and the same. Somehow we recreate creation in our image. To conform to our limited vision. It’s always dark somewhere.

The sky is indivisible. I look out thickening panes of glass, their barriers encase me, my naked eye hides behind prescribed spectacles, my spectacles spy behind tempered windows, my mind adjusts through this false prism. The sky now becomes a graph to plot while the blazing hills of Mount Tamalpais anchor the Pacific and swallow time whole. We call it sunset, yet the sun never rises, it remains there fixed between the reticles of our gun scopes, waiting for us to aim.

We never fire. Instead we turn away from the sun, satisfied as it sinks into the ocean, our conquest won, we sip our wine and sigh… “Another day is done.” Standing atop this rotating orb, spinning at a thousand knots per hour, swallowing the lure of the Fisher King’s net, our tangled feet trip on a ground that is weary of supporting us. Its layers run deep. Why do we only care about its surface? In this place where nothing is possible but everything is permitted we dig superficially in the deep only to plunder false treasure.

Turn turn turn. We turn and yearn. Upside down, inside out, right and left, east and west, north and south. All directions devoid of meaning to an evermolting universe, truth spat out the seeds of this apple with no core, yet they are constantly being sown. Our truth always outgrowing itself. Outpacing us.

We who in our me-drunkenness shield our sight from a too strong light, we who’d rather flip a switch to believe we can control it, we who create false suns immured in boxes to keep our blood from trembling, we who with our roving electric scope look at everything but see nothing, we who want desperately to avoid dying alone in the dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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