“The reason we have poverty is because we have no imagination” Alan Watts
In the pain of sight I closed my eyes. I no longer had the strength to see. Oh, what have I done. From the silenced cries pounding through my heart I felt the galaxies of pain I have shut my eyes to. I can no longer stop that voice can I? The voice that helps me feel comfortable amongst all this pain, this blood, the soil screaming for relief. I can’t ignore the pulse from beneath my feet. But I am not quite living as the pulsations beneath my feet are alive. I have movement although I can see the strings attached above me. I have thoughts although late at night I hear the tinkering…tick,tick, tick, hands and instruments inside my head, possibly not my own. Flashing lights, turn right, turn left, don’t, no, no! Where there is control there is always the opposite but how is there an opposite if I can’t see it, if I can’t feel it? The opposite has disappeared…somewhere. And I have disappeared somewhere, down in the bottom of this here well, I could barely see the light up ahead but even down here I began to see my ego swelling. Becoming a thought in someone’s head, existing separately from myself, becoming a hydra, with infinite heads existing in the minds of itself. Wait, where did I go? On the television, my childhood existing for others to feel and I reached for that feeling but…could never…quitegrasp what they were feeling. I never existed the way I was suppose to and I never exactly touched that light that seemed so far away at the bottom of that well. I remember how the water tasted how it comforted me in my lonely cries of help and how an entire nation was distracted by a thing that could no longer even feel what it was. But you see, that day, I forget a lot but there is one thing that entered me that would never leave and it was that pulse, maybe I wasn’t alive until then but it was that pulse that kept me seeing the light, it was that pulse maybe that attracted people to me and wished hope for me, that pulse that most have lost the ability or the need to feel. That pulse that existed to punish me. Every time one was healed by my touch a little piece of me was gone and I was quickly becoming space, space that forgot how to breathe, and see, but I was and when touched I gave life and my sight grew dim and my feelings were forgotten but I could hear that voice, previously my voice screaming from the bottom of the well, piercing through the veil of light…I reach, I almost feel…I am what I thought
childhood in a cage to be studied and it was because i uttered one silly phrase I couldn’t begin to understand as a seven year old child
I saw the light and it is here
and I pointed to my heart and that’s when my life became a study
and that’s when i knew they haven’t a clue on what’s really going on,
no one did because the light for them was something to be reached for and something never reached.
and the noise in my head started. The lights and at night the shadows and I was chased, always chased and slowly they would take from me more and more and then I existed in a petri dish, on a table, in a computer, as an equation and I reached for the light but it disappeared…