Let's talk about the blues

No rush rush, but hush, hush. I'm open like a blooming flower, and my being follows on, as in a dam about to break open with uncontrollable force, human made, approved by rapture and suicide. As in the dunes that appease nature falling over themselves in a tense rhythm of liberation on an elastic string that stops and zooms unexplainably. 

Look, seek, now you see me, then you don't. Today I have a feeling. I've got that feeling. I'm just an ubiquitous being contemplating her destiny, the rapids of life. Look at me, I'm frightened and then I'm not. 

Won't stop, it's easy to stop: the spoken word, those planned journeys exits escapes - it's all the same. I'm my beloved. I'm fleeing the scene. I look at you, you are not. You witness the dunes and you're stuck, stuck in the sand, stuck and don't move. 

Repetitions, rituals. I won't, I won't stop the spoken words, the broken words, the sugar melting in my tongue, the reverie. 

The holy spirit, the cows feeding off the pasture. The rhythm, darling, is unstoppable but I see you stuck in the quicksand. The horizon has moved and I see you not. I desire you but you are behind that shining rainbow of light and pain that's receding like your own intentions. You take the bread away from your mouth, you don't feed yourself, you go back on your tracks. I'm moving along, away, recidivating, looking for the recommended reward, my baggage claim. 

My dictionary says: "They quarrelled but they've made (it) up now". Literally. On route. I'm recognised, I didn't recognise her. Then I looked, now I don't. I seek and I'm traced by (in) the words of this pocket English dictionary. It has the translation I require but not too many words. How many? As much as 253 pages of grammar fit in its pages. It's not a lot. I don't know if they are enough. I ignore that. Are there enough words in our dictionary to travel around, inside, below us? 

My fountain pen, my fountain of ink, I should say, its points and soft trace over the pages, under my flat skin; I don't know, I ignore the causes, the trouble, maybe I'll break its roundness if I press the gold tip that saturates the ink around its point, my lines, my writing, my train of thought (unbearable some times I would say, I should say), it's uncontainable like the morning and forward waves from the dunes, and we are separated and apart, I part I leave I sweat it all off and write it all down. The writer, she, hasn't got what it takes? That's why her books aren't read by anyone, but are encased, they are published in pages and I'm holding the book right now. It speaks volumes although I should say, I will say this is only Volume I although there is a sea of words that advance the kill, the mellow death, I will die sometime, maybe now, maybe not.

I need glasses to read now, to speak now, to write right now, to write right, right? I don't, I don't presume, I don't want these easy fireworks of poetry, of words that go unnoticed like the nourishment of the soil, like its wetness feeding trees and plants. But they stay put, and I break open. I envy their blooming flowers in the cold and windy spring. Anyway, it's spring now and there's nothing I can do; I can't deny that spring is now here, and I am swallowed by the passing of the seasons. Death approaches slow but it's certain. 

Today I missed the unborn leaves on trees. They are confused by the frigid and frozen spring this year. I won't talk about my lack of words, I am so stupid I can't embrace nor encompass the shifting of seasons, the melting snow, the warm wheat, the bred inner feelings. I won't stop now. It's easy allright. I got to keep on going and hold on to the swinging string, the coarse rope that is gagging me. This is tough, but maybe it's not. I don't know, why should I know? 

I'm moving along the urban streets breathing the city exhausts, staying away from the pit and pavement potholes, I can certainly walk around them. I learnt my ways when I was two years old to steer clear from them and avoid them. Dog crap, human urine, all of it. When I was a toddler I was frightened of water running from the tap, my mum's black gloves, the shades in the dark. I cried and ranted because I didn't want to go to sleep. I was uncertain of dreams, I mean I thought I was already dreaming during the day those street potholes, that dirty puddle water, the blind cicadas in quarantine, the screaming black death crows outside my bedroom window. 

This is the matter, as a matter of fact, the question behind the question, the broken glass.  Frightened, frightened, when you are you can't sing a song about fear when you are little if you're frightened. Maybe I can now, maybe I can't. 

Hush, hush, not rush, rush. I didn't like broken puppets, the broken evil clown so I broke toys. Now perhaps I'm a broken toy too. But I'm not frightened, no. I don't fear joy nor laughter, not even the laughter of death because death is silent, it's mild, it happens within a fraction of a second, those 21 grams, you know. I will be an orphan when it happens to me. I will have witnessed many deaths before mine. And life, where is it? Now I understand life, no big deal, we are all alive now, and then. Won't stop, will sleep at night (I'll try) but I won't stop, I won't lie, I will cause harm to others, of course I will, it's just an unavoidable fact of life. I still ask questions, opinions from others around me. How do you feel when ...? It's a fact of getting older, it's like that, I won't stop wondering and asking questions to my friends about our lives, our destiny, our remaining hours, that famous half full glass they talk about in the blues. Oh, well. I won't forget the blues either. Let's talk about the blues. My lovely, I've memorised your phone number. O euro cents per minute, the machine says. I have secrets for you.