Open sesame

I lived inside a box in my mind
And somehow I found a door

When I opened it up, I realised
There was never a box at all

The Dying Dream

Last night I dreamed I died and watched on as my soul trickled out from my body as a caravan of effervescent orange symbols into a void of pressing black.

The symbols comprised many languages; alive and dead, ancient and modern, verbal, mathematical, syntactical, gibberish -- they were memories of my soul, echoes of its various incarnations, and they quivered with excitement to be returning to their home.

In the void, an object became apparent. Spherical, enormous, a tightly wound star throbbing with densely packed syntax, countless strands of symbols weaving in and out from across the void, all snaking back to this place to be re-woven, re-merged, and re-made.

There was no fear. Why would there be? There was no dualism. To consider terror was to confuse where you were. This coming back was as effortless as breathing. 

As I drew nearer, a shape arose from the sea of symbols - a dragon, clumsy and oafish, splashing about happily in the ocean of words like dolphins leaping before the bow of a boat.

The sphere itself was vibrantly alive with a consciousness beyond any label I might give it. This dragon was like a sock-puppet made purely for its own amusement.

As it splashed about, bits of orange stuff broke off and floated out into the void.

Ah, I thought. That's how life is formed.

How clumsy! How frivolous! How blithely unaware of the consequences.

All love, all pain, all suffering, all grief, just the idle splish-splashes of a God in a bathtub keeping itself amused.

don't tell me let me figure it out

the kids hock and spit and raise their shirts to slap their bellies and
one has tats up his neck and a half-shaved head with hair gelled back and
they cackle laughter like rifle fire
they squawk and jostle and swagger and prowl through the city

he has flowers in a blue bouquet that look fancy-expensive

(lucky thing)

oh they're dressed nice, real fine - armani, or something - i wouldn't know

but they're hungry, that's for certain

(what do you want for when you get home? what do you imagine in wait?)

the heat feels like some sci-fi film i might yet write where the sun strips your skin from your flesh in forty seconds

it would make a good ticking-clock in the parlance of that stuff
i imagine a fictional world where a civilisation might actually pay attention to the omens

the kids spit on the street again and laugh like morons as i follow them through chinatown

i think - i just want to get around you
becomes - i just want you to not exist