The Constellation of Thought
Today, I broke my rule about getting out of bed before eight A.M., and since then, I have felt a wave of seasickness wash over me. The rain brewing in the dark clouds above does not help my confidence that the dizziness will pass. My eyes want to deceive me, claiming that the blurred lines around me will hold and that all is fine. At this moment, I am searching for Schumann’s rope to pull all the planets closer for a waltz. I still feel bad about killing an ant on my way to the bathroom. My guilt even pushed me to leave it a Band-Aid. Then, I went back to searching for words to fill the blank lines in my mind. I needed to write this to contradict life, because if you’re reading this, I am still alive; the ant is not. Schumann never needed to do what I did today to prove he is alive. He brought grace closer to everyone’s hearts in good faith, while I dwell in my guilt. Schumann plays, and I stay in place, dancing to the tides rushing from afar.
I’m living off a magical wand that fills my head with a buzz. It makes me airheaded, like a hive of bees. The rush of white air hits my mind, offering the best tastes from Duke Street. A second for honesty? This Dunhill of mine may be my only true friend. We have no lies shared between us, no temperaments, no secrets, no questions, and no feelings. When I wave my cork-ended wand, all Westminster hears me. They never feel the need to respond. That’s what I call a good friend—two pals holding a silent stale pose, sharing a panoramic view of everything. This habit of mine is unique. It feels selfish in a world full of hypocrisy. I don’t belong to any group except the one I make myself.
I turned down Rembrandt’s invite to meet Bathsheba and hear her story. Instead, I returned to my old pose, letting my lips curve to show my gleaming teeth. I have a friend who wraps his stench around me like a warm blanket on a cold night. Sometimes, I don’t know where this wand of mine is taking me. Sometimes, I guess I will keep on. I tried to find the moon, but I couldn’t see it through the clouds. I reached for something smaller than myself, but I found nothing. I discovered love where I expected hate. I was running out of the very time I tried to capture. Though I meant to be mean, I ended up kind. I looked backward only to move forward, sitting down to stand again in search of nothing. I even tried not to write this, but I already did.
I sent the amber train of whiskey chugging; I sent my farewells to a place that knew me better than I knew myself. The bottom of the barrel teaches a universal lesson. A genie swimming in the deep seas of passion teaches a tipsy dog a tasty fate. Yearning for himself, he felt the shadow resting on his back, teasing at the muddy water’s edge. He hugs the warmth of the drapes, feeling reborn. Then, he rises from the abyss, pulled back to the light by the great genie he discovered. The “unexplained” is where I go through my archive of secrets. I am currently saving myself until I dissolve into the crevices of nature. God will appear again when I am distracted by the pain of life. All art lies within man, yet it often remains hidden.
Throughout my life, I’ve pondered what was before I was born. At times, it felt like I was already dead. Now, during my time alive, I see myself more as an idea. Living in the city is killing me, but it has also brought me closer to an ugly reality I have come to embrace. My stomach is growling with hunger, and I enjoy the loud rumbles while I sink into the words of infinite wonder. How many more seconds of my life will the city steal from me? Stuck in traffic, I inhale the toxins and fumes of capitalism. They hurt my health and well-being. How could I leave the city? I’m hooked on poisonous drugs and sugars, clinging to the habits I’ve formed here. The city builds and tears down savory facades every day; this is the place where fallen angels wine and dine. I often run into them. They take my time, but they do it with a smile and a handshake. Then, they move on. Black suits, ties, and vegan-leather suitcases fill my life. There’s no meaning in this city. But it is still beloved; I must turn away to seek a path toward the ancient dirt and silence. There is hope of meeting God, or even the Devil. I care only that I encounter a presence, whoever it may be.
I saw your open sky in the desert. Smiling like a crowned princess, playing cards with angels. We have run through mountains, like the world knew our name. The clergy has agreed to anoint our love outside time. A moon has passed. Fruits are ripe now. Water bodies have turned into cooking pavements. Fall is now white, powdery lint. Over the weeks, I’ve seen the walls in our small apartment fade, jealous of our mirrors. They hold an elegant poise, capturing a luminescent beauty. Doves have carried your words and sold them to the finest lyrical salesmen. Not only will I sing your soliloquy, but the world will too.