Words in a Jar Held Close to the Light
I wrote this with a pen that’s lived in ten million landfills. Those are alternate reality stories, alternate moments on alternate timelines. Clear crystalline examples of what would happen if I wasn’t holding it in my hands in this here and now.
I typed this with hands that bled in fifteen different ways. That’s just pure fiction till the knife fight starts and the webs between my fingers drip red. Pacifism has a downside but give me your energy and I’ll return the favor.
That’s not a follow-for-follow solicitation even though my shoulders are strong enough for all ya’ll bluebirds who give a shit.
Think of it as compost; think of this as a question.
Do you really need more money than heartbeats in a lifetime?
A terrible metric if you add the value of sloping light through light-colored curtains, sunrise with a lover who holds your heart in gentle hands.
I say all this as if it’s my job to impart wisdom but it’s not. I’m just a steam engine with a leaky valve, an old wheel rounded into a perfect square. A stopped clock with glass gears forged from sand homegrown on Mars.
Better make bets against me and then expect to lose. Consider it a holistic experience, but I’m my own bookie and I’m sorry if I ever encouraged you to doubt me.
This is misinformation; propaganda that’s sewn from so much skewed truth it forms a net.
Apologies for the tangent. Unfocused and drifting, I want to point fingers but second-person-tense is just an academic way of gaslighting with permission.
What a contradiction. I’d say let’s ignore it but really what else are you doing when you read this? You’re letting me tell you what to think and you won’t even know what that is till we hit the full stop as the carriage return clicks home.
Now my hands are anemic as I spill my soul on the water, thirsty ’cause the drinking glass is invisible in the dark. Accidental grid surveys sweep unrelated sectors till it bounces off my knuckle and shatters on the…