Thursday, September 1, 2011

confess

I am only fit to speak to my imagination, the world having long ago exceeded my grasp. The fleeting glimpse, the mournful distance, the depths to which all truths have fled. I slide across the shadow, that flicker of tooth all bite and smile. The absolute manifest in the contrasts. The definition complete only with its opposite intact. The blinders of language always painting me into corners, trapped by all I would confess.

I arrive at only distance dreamt having lived so still and so soft. The brush against dark branch the wheeling constellations, the smell of water clasped close to the sod. The whole night so certain and fluent, a chill against the skin, a breath slowly kissed. The languid complicity of the imagination, crippling more the nimble. The alacrity of numb limitation, the slow unraveling of insistent perception.

So this is why I dream so hard and poorly. This is why I am absent in the day and empty in the night. The side effect of a life lived loosely and beyond all means. The symptomatic loss gained through deep thinking around the edges of thought. Not the picture but the notion. Not the details but the gist. You as the least I could hope for. You as the limits of all I want.

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