Wait for the fall, over the other side of time. Your life passing beneath you, as if its the world itself that moves beneath you while you just stand your ground, unable to move, stuck, a loop of a living, curling and whirl-winding, a storm wreaking havoc around you, with some instances where it passes over you, inside the inertia of the center, some kind of peace of mind can be found. As if that fall, coming your way over this span of time ahead of you must always come after a climb, after a struggle of immense proportions, with boredom, with sickness and crowds. Not all lands are created the same. Some are treacherous, riddled with pitfalls, deadly predators, evil intent and dumb luck.
Beware the false turn of events into something good. A stroke of luck will always leave you dumbfounded, blind to darkness. Don't forget total annihilation is but a careless step away, sometimes not even that, sometimes even inaction will cause destruction. Yet be content that violence waits at the end of every road. Existence is always torn from this world and it never leaves without clawing its will to the earth, to it's betrayer the flesh.
So why isn't it possible to live with the same intensity? Life is trivial, I guess. So much of it crawls around that as a species, that will to cling to life is gradually diminished. The animal dies and with it, the purity of life is lost. When that happens, death reigns. The species is cursed to produce and consume death, digging its own grave on the path to progress.
Big things happen, just a little bit further away from the threshold of whatever walls and shields that you have amassed outside your door, tragedies, big momentous events unfolding without a sound, no visual clue as to what may have happened. Something occurs, just a few blocks away from your building, and whole universes shift and unravel, just like that. You, with your trivial wanderings, your pathetic anxieties and useless successes, pace around your living room, never straying too far away from your computer screen.
Love happens to some people. Agonizing starts to puke-inducing heartbreaks which leaves you floored, literally, sprawled beside your chair, unable to straighten like a bipedal organism, slithering on archaic patterns, surrounded by all the dust left behind your depression. Some horrible songs are played throughout these monotone streets, in color and sense, some terrible stories are lived, watched, whispered inside rooms with walls painted sickly yellow, not even a color but a state of mind.
Cars blare horns, stars vanish, clouds gather, leaves and trash mingle around the roads. Cats and other street dwelling creatures howl, yip and screech endlessly beneath windowsills, infecting dreams, waking infants, fucking and biting around uselessly until the first light of the day. Then other little narratives follow, like tiny little dots all falling in line, forming an amorphous shape, a constellation of events that no visionary can fathom, no scientist can untangle, no astronomer can chart, no astrologer can bullshit his way out with empty platitudes.
These small, stupid mistakes pile on top of each other, reaching to mountainous heights, casting a shadow that engulfs the will, a flood of confused, acidic anxiety, eating away your foundations yet finding no depth to your shame while also shitting clouds into your sky, veiling the light, making it impossible for any kind of sense and order or peace to reach into that stream of you, counting down all the ways of the world that could and would and definitely is going to fuck you over. If the world didn't, you certainly would fuck up, and you did already but maybe you don't know or wouldn't accept it until all the options are deleted right in front of your eyes.
Mistakes, forgetfulness, neglect, laziness, haziness in thought, drenched in doubt and fear.
Some day, I wish I would fall into a routine. Like an unseen manhole in the dark of the night opening up under your feet, that moment of weightlessness when your whole weight waits for an impact to stand it up, but finding no purchase, dips into nothingness, I want to fall into a routine, swallowed up by it and smothered in its pointy but smooth arms, all edges prickling your senses in minuscule points, so shallowly penetrating your skin that its not even a complete sensation but a constant, suffocating anticipation of perception, almost there and always fading already, while this titanic, galaxy wide body of flesh engulfs you, surrounds your being like a glove, shielding you in this planet of a womb. Because I don't have hope for actually building that routine out of my actions, I don't. I want routine to find me instead. To find me and unfold me like the crushed thing that I am, and fold me back into an origami of a person, not quite embodied, not actualized as should a mature person, but an approximation of how I should be. An estimate of what I could become if I wasn't such and such.
Then I would smash those mistakes down, pull them down and unearth them, chew them up and spit them out over my neighborhood, shit them down streams to oceans and deep trenches full of dark noise and luminous fish. They would be as dust coating this city, stealing all the color from cheeks, from skyscrapers, trees and schools. Travelling through noses and lungs, forming pools of dirt on sidewalks, a texture of grief settling on surfaces near and far.
No luck, until there is. Even then refusing to acknowledge it as luck is best. Leave the fate to its own business. Let it weave through you and leave you empty.
