I’ll walk through this door. I’ll walk across this horizon where the snow-covered sand reflects my shadow. But perhaps this time, this time it shows nothing. All the footprints are gone with the shore. The stars offer only their hapless glow. Across the darkness, a spotlight is on your face, your lips are chapped, and your breath is fogging. Our eyes meet and lock. Yet, I am tired of metaphors, symbolic gestures, and social varnish.
This world is best experienced as metaphors and abstractions and obtuse tropes. This world is best looked at with rolling hills and swaying blades of grass, green and yellow glinting from the sun; that amazing sun, that persistent ball of hydrogen and helium, yellow, red, ruthlessness, and recycled hurt and heat— flaring, soaring, blazing, distantly silent.
And with this, I ask, how can you be sure? “How can you be sure?” These words rip across my flesh, tracing across my old scars. These simple, short words thrust across arteries; the interior bleeding suffocates the lungs. Will there ever be a way to separate it all? Here is one day and another. Here is this moment for you across the moonlight. This one, this one dream, this one wish shines within a well. I want my wish back like the Goonies, but the end is the same.
It’s where even the most ridiculous events bring us to a scene of being inside an empty wishing well. Rain falls down on your face and that moment slows down. The scene transforms into following little beads of water falling down on blades of grass and bark of the old oak trees; sky weeping, soul following, falling, sinking, absorbing just a few notes of a song that started before you were born. This is hurt, this is love, this is everything and nothing where you reach out and hate, reach out and love, and you defend and offend, you find a way through the dark looking for that fucking fantastic sun!
Looking through a drop of rain, you notice something or perhaps nothing. Nothing, as you realize you have your own disappearing shadow desperately existing, being, clinging, seeking the sun. And it all fades to black as the enveloping metaphor begins its first loop, and we wake up. And I forget you never choose me no matter the infinite variations in every repeated iteration.