Through their blank eyes they speak their dead words as if they are them. They caress their means of existence as an exhibition of ritualistic rounds, with their spittle dried around the edges of their mouths giving way for the darkness to feed among each closing and opening of their haunted caverns; they truly believe they are among the structure of it all. And exactly as they are, we see.
I saw that before seeing it and now it’s as if I didn’t. The song of the dysfunctional moaning happens. As feet move, over screaming cement. A disdain foams just under thought, asking for more and more; move over and feed this original sin. A seedling isn’t just a thing happened, again, as the fearing behemoths protest- It’s all been done before.
There are only so many windowsills we can chew on while waiting for our fathers and mothers to care about us. Walk a mile into the woods and find where the leaves placed themselves for us to turn over. -Walk back to the same sill twenty-five years later and ask yourself if you’d rather care about who you wanted to care about you, or if you’d like to again walk a mile into the woods to find a few more leaves.
‘People think I’m crazy. I think a lot. I think when I think. If my eyes seem volatile, they may be, or I’m lost in a non-linear perpetual sliding thought and when I break my mind I come out of it.’ So the frog hopped, asking the young girl to repeat herself. ‘Never mind with you,’ she said skipping away flicking at the long grass. She wore a yellow hat.
It goes over most. The wall is so tall, so very tall. Brotherhood isn’t only a word it’s especially not. The wall isn’t so tall to not topple, yet we don’t let one another see past it. Stone mixed with cement and more sand and water builds deeper in our minds than the construction. Some though, harness their everything and see through without ever climbing.
For a long time he had forgotten that he was crazy. He remembered when- A friend told ‘her’ about another ‘him’ and being told about this helped him to remember that the two are one and the same. He wasn’t sure he should believe himself because he knows there can’t be two. It’s a bit like this- It’s dark and you feel a large stone. You sit on this stone. As you touch the stone you feel bits of dirt crumbling off. The dirt falls onto the ground and you’re no longer sitting on the stone. You’re now looking up. At another. The ground is your new home and above is a lie. It never happened. There was no stone and there wasn’t a ‘her’ and there isn’t any darkness nor any crumbling dirt. And there was one. -M. Taggart