Do you feel unease, walking in tall grass? Visceral tension? A primal impression from a time when a wounded beast [on its belly, & with labored breath] retained enough energy for one last lurch to impale its hunter? A raspy groan or bloody burble, and the jerky wave of the grass might be all the warning one got before The End.
Being lost is underrated. Overblown: devastating? But you've not seen what I've seen: a world that I could not have known, had the signs not been overgrown. And had I not ventured beyond boundary lines, and tried my very best to find some ancient item - long lost to time. Stumbling, weary, but wanting more; I wandered, knocking door-to-door. But none could tell me where I was, because they couldn't see me from above. All they knew was that I was "here," and so, it was as I had feared. Because I'd left to get away from here, in search of some magic where -- an unknown "there," far from here.
i walked the rutted road in failing daylight & wondered what I might find when it turned to night & milky moonlight would be the only means to see & i hear the relentless chirp of a bullfrog that can't be seen because it's everywhere to my non-directional ears but still i look for it & i step into a puddle & my sock is squishy with each left step & i go home
Ganesha: Obstacles removed & Good luck brought All yields to the elephantine forehead & elephantine learning Seemingly immovable when seated, but I've seen you swing; hoisted by a crane & dangled out over the water But the pendulum arc was short & stiff & precarious: as if it might flip the crane -- every remover of obstacles must leave a detritus of past obstacles in its wake
They claimed theft, but what was stolen? They could not name it, but said they felt its loss. They demanded recompense, but weren't sure to whom they should send the bill, and so they just shouted the demand out to the universe. This thing which could not be named or described could be missed; its loss felt deep within. They would rage for it (if in vague terms) by violent means if necessary.
The mirror lies,
pretending to be a window.
Through the looking-glass?
My ass!
It presents a prison
in fine detail
&
with a glossy coating,
but it can’t be escaped.
Its truth is overbearing.
That’s how it lies.
Rain is coming. I can smell its sweet whiff on the breeze. A storm prowls out there beyond my eyes power to see. But dark clouds hunker in the fore: the storm's vanguard. The birds know it's coming. They've vacated the skies to... I know not where.
Fictional cities pile upon each other, spreading like blood puddles until they spill into yet others at their amorphous edges. And distinction is lost -- homogeneity wins -- but that lysergic sadness remains.
Put the sun at your back and run headlong toward the darkness. Killing days at record speed, leaning into the terminus, and you wake up in the light and prepare for another westward run.
Possibility. That which is not, but could be: in the future, or in a world as feasible as our own. (perhaps more so?) When is a possibility a reality? It may not be a reality unless - and until - it comes to be, and, yet, might be a basis of reality, decisions are made on assumptions that a possibility has high probability of becoming reality. I see kids playing and feel the expanding field of possibility, and wonder when it starts to shrink, to collapse? When & why does possibility die?
Tiger Riding for Beginners 