When the Grass Grows Back

Thumbnail image lovingly appropriated from Patrick Benson’s illustrations for the Minpins by Roald Dahl.

I kind of like this sound even though it’s been a long time that I’m tired, you know. There is something that is pressing on my mind. In spite of all the time I’ve given it to resolve, to dissolve, it goes on. And presses on in me. I fixed the chord but I’m still feeling angry. It’s not even me. Find it tough to give voice to all that’s coming up in me. But I will never be valued, so I’m told - I will never be valued.

So what the fuck am I looking for in these halls? It’s just a hall of mirrors and I see myself infinitely reflected back, so many times, it’s become nothing at all.

Is there ever a time when you’re too tired to even try to reverse the wrong chords? Is there ever a time when you’re too tired, to take the time to read the signals of everything that’s happening now?

I don’t even care what kind of dream was happening last night. What kind of symptoms or signals were coming through. Is this detachment? It doesn’t feel so bad. Not as bad as I thought it would feel.

How do I care for what must go on and on and on for as long as it will? For what I can’t exactly abandon but I can’t claim as my own?

I shouldn’t get lost in the signals. I shouldn’t get lost in the words. I shouldn’t get lost in forms and figures, I shouldn’t get lost in the world.

Because what good am I to you now, if I’m just a medium? Just a medium for the same old signals, crashing against each other? The cosmic cymbals. (symbols)

There’s something I’m feeling into. That has a way to be. Some kind of path down the middle. A fairy story and fable.

I let the horses out of the stable. I lit the building on fire. I let the children out of the classrooms, now they’re running in the meadows by the wire. Birds have risen high in the poisoned sky, I hope they can escape this time. And when the grass grows back this time, I hope it lasts.