The Feeding Rhyme
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The Feeding Rhyme

Storming the Mind

Free-writing: an unrestrained technique that stimulates creative thinking by loosening the thought process.

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

DAY 1

Song. Story. Song. This music doesn’t really help it’s way too dramatic to think of anything lighthearted or anything that isn’t being swept up by the love of your life in the middle of a downpour but then again who really wants to be all drenched and wet and trying to meet someone’s gaze as the fall of rain lands on your eyes

Stars. Flying fish. Locomotive. If you were here

Usually when I braindump I dump anything and everything and it tends to get sad more often than not like my fantasies are always sad my life is always sad I have regurgitate throw up vomit all the sadness first all those unresolved issues that you might usually take out on/with a therapist but that seem to bubble immediately to the surface and that really sucks when I just want some great idea to pop off from my head and write lighthearted tenderness. Why does it have to be sad. Why is anyone sad really?

Nevermind. We are all sad all the time due to external influences that fuck up our psyche and force us to comply with this life with this society we are all under attack constantly. Be it the media, the government, our own friends and families. Social media as a distraction but then again it is also interconnectedness at our fingertips. How easy it is to find and share joy rather than seek it out? I mean sure it’s temporary but there’s nothing the matter with temporary feelings. It’s the joy of life to at least experience things that aren’t permanent. Permanence like cement, like that one brick sticking out uncomfortably from a home, You can’t unsee it every single time you pass by. Did the construction workers forget Did they run out of cement Did they run out of space and it’s just there sticking out like a sore thumb just wear gloves in that case

I am flying. Flying towards the sun. There’s scenery beneath me, buildings and forests and oceans, all the world beneath me at my disposal yet up here I am far away from it. Is this worth the peace of mind? The distance of it all, to remain forever separated from that that I love and gaze upon it from afar? That’s how my first love was, just the pure adrenaline of secret love. It wasn’t unrequited, not yet when I myself hadn’t even gone as far as to express those feelings. The moment they became unrequited was when I first feared I would lose him forever. Was he ever mine then?

There we go being sad again you were flying you were up so high Why are you tearing your own wings off. Isn’t that the point of Icarus? He flew too close to the sun. I’ve heard there’s a second part to that myth, just like how Jack of all trades master of none has a second part: but better than master of one. Icarus wasn’t meant to fly too close to the sun or else the wax on his wings would melt away and he would fall but he was also not meant to fly too close to the ocean or else the salt of the sea would disintegrate the wax and flaxen it thus causing him to fall either way. What do I care I’m afraid of heights either way.

DAY 2

Once upon a time there was a running man. He was running. He started out in a marathon but just kept on going on and on for miles on end, past civilization and into the wilderness Day and night he ran, deep under the cover of the great pine forest, tripping yet never faltering over large roots and mushrooms with only the distant gaze of wild animals for company, the rainwater as drink, pine needles as nourishment. Off and off he ran, through sweltering desert heat and straight into the ocean. He wondered how far he ran and why he couldn’t stop. Sleep didn’t come to him it just stopped altogether. He kept running, just barely before that one exhaustion point that renders your muscles useless and hardens them like cement. Hitting the wall is what it’s called isn’t it? He ran and ran and ran until he finally circled back unto the land that knew him and waited for him, the city he grew up in, his family and friends and old job. Sorry can’t stop won’t stop gotta continue you see. So he continued on and on once more, in fact never stopped. The world began to shrink with each step and a few months later when he looped back to his hometown the circle round the world had seemed shorter this time. And the next time it was shorter than that. And then the next even shorter. He paced on and on without stopping, finding nourishment easier yet also scarce. The wild began to grow thinner, more animals crossed his path that he crushed beneath his constant pace. Those animals disappeared as well. Cities crumbled beneath his path. What if you were here Was the Earth truly shrinking or was he just growing larger, larger than life, nearly bursting with exhaustion and moments away from self-imploding after years of never stopping, never doing anything but run. His family grew old and died away, continents separated and turned into stepping stones as his head hit the ceiling of the sky. The stars remained the same, ever-present and as far away as ever, yet perhaps he could reach them now. Why stop? Why stop at all? The Earth was gone, the universe was all that remained. He hopped from star to star, planet to asteroid and kept on running, rendering pieces of the galaxy into dust and particles.

Or at least that’s what he wanted to think. When the world shrunk down to the size of a pebble, accidentally kicked away by one final step, one final push through to the finish line, he was cast away floating in the eternity of space flying endlessly, without control, without goal

Some say he runs ever to this day, getting further and further from view until millennia have passed us by and there he comes again, just floating endlessly propelled by his own sheer will despite the fact that will alone, while it allowed him to survive through an endless run, can’t keep him alive forever. His empty and limp corpse just floats on by, colliding with black holes and creating endless paradoxes, his body split into thousands of pieces that run on and on across the great void that is space. Without an end, with infinity stretching beyond comprehension itself, he continues to soar

Storming on and on. I don’t want to admit that he’s dead, motes of skin and hardened blood streaking across our solar system, spelling inevitable doom but

DAY 3

The tiny man sank to the bottom of the ship.

It was tragic really there was no manner in which he could out-swim the current. Small so small that his flapping arms sputtered uselessly above the surface of the water before slowly sinking down with the rest of the ship. A jellyfish’s tendril gently brushes onto his leg, leaving a trickle of electric charges running through his skin and deep into his bones. It feels wrong.

A stork strolls along a pond of dirty, deep green water, kicking away at slimy seaweed and flies. well maybe not seaweed that’s in the sea and this is a pond. A pond is small, clean and dirty in its own way, different organisms and beings coexisting, no sharks though that’s the good thing. Depends on the pond I guess, sort of like that video with a couple of sharks swimming inside a flooded mall after a hurricane I think it’s been debunked? That’s a mood sharks in the mall, not so fashionable anymore once they come into our territory and stalk about waiting for the first of its prey to step into its pool of water. Just bop it on the nose or go to a pond, no sharks there.

The watts of electricity coursing through the tiny man’s body becomes more and more charged with every desperate stroke to reach the surface of the ocean. Little does he know that this water’s breathable, salt and all. It’s all thanks to his tiny body and tiny lungs that process water in a different manner. His legs charge up and whoosh there he goes shooting past jellyfish amoebas lobster crabs king crabs narwals and sharks; yes even sharks. Straight from the ocean and directly into a local convenience store past all the sharks. The stork glares at him, standing tiptoe on the edge of its ghoulish pond.

DAY 4

A cold shred of infinite darkness, white specks of light glistening through the cosmos. An array of multi-dimensional bodies, wrapped in glaring fire and warped forever by the distance opposing them. Tragic ground tread on by explorers, too distant from their home to fathom the magnitude of the very soil that touches the bottom of their boots.

Flight. Oh so distant flaps of heaving power. The stretch of warmth through endless snow. A massive surge of energy, flying, colliding with everything beneath its path. A bright moon rising in a crescendo past the mountaintop, glowing blue, green, yellow, red, black. Colors upon colors upon colors upon chromatic scales, neverending sights that pierce even the foggiest of minds. Sight becomes redundant before such majesty. Unnecessary. The eyes cannot begin to pierce what the mind subconsciously already knows, what the heart has pounded ever since the first life came to be: the first song, beat beat beating away, stopping only until the very last life hisses out its long, fully escaped breath.

We move on and on.

Isn’t it strange to consider that once life began, it never ended? As a collection of beings, as a whole, humans, plants, wildlife, the sun and stars and moon, beings that alone carry barely a breath’s worth in the grand scheme of life, yet together combine into a maelstrom of perfect chaos, of unending life the endures and pursues beyond its measure.

What a fantastical notion it is to live and be alive. To breath to sing to dance to enjoy to feel to embrace and hold to cry to pour limitless water over open wounds from the sheer power of our emotions to sleep to dream to behold the smallest of fractions in a lifetime when some other soul across the ocean holds firmly in their own fragment of existence Like leaves of a tree we unite to form a whole We are independent yet never a moment alone We dance and fall and return to life when the cycle begins anew There is power at the tips of our fingers, on each strand of hair, through every breath we inhale Say what if you were here in each step we take, blood beating endlessly for as long as we dare stay alive and fucking dammit we will stay alive. Spite is the force that guides all others, the blight of life’s mere knowledge.

I am sitting now in a single moment defined by nothing, not meaning, not importance, not emotion, not even by simply being yet here I am: being. What life lies ahead, what dreams and potential fantasies to do and taste and see and live for life’s sake just to live. The soft yellow glow of a single lantern lit in the corner of the room bouncing off these beige-colored walls, the smell of home, the sight that has plagued my eyes for all of my existence, jagged corners, crooked mirrors, curtains sweeping in the breeze as I cough and continue breathing in the same skin that has possessed for eternity. Look at these colors, look at the darkened sky and imagine them, feel them, the treasured halo of home and comfort

DAY 5

Drain. Dollop. Dastardly. Delicious. Disaster. Dessert. Desert. Dentist. Dent. Dominion. Duncan.

Yesterday was about the glory of living. Now I’m not so sure. I’m sweltering in my skin, prickling alive, far too alive for comfort. I should just be. I shouldn’t be aware of every breath, every blink, every itch that seems to pass from my head to the back of my neck to my elbow down my abdomen uncomfortably behind my knee and then over and over again as I sit smoldering in this piece of flesh I’ve been rendered within.

I used to be scared of so many things. Childhood fears are an incredible thing to behold when you consider how irrational they are. They exist beyond the realm of phobias, even past the realm of nightmares Unintelligible, incoherent, there is a grand scale of things I used to be afraid of and to this day provoke a discomfort within me that I sometimes wish I could understand yet I now accept I’ll never actually be able to explain

Dark rooms Bright rooms An infinite immensity extending beyond my scope of comprehension. A space that seemed to exist outside of reality and was, therefore, not real. How could something not be real? I didn’t understand. I don’t understand. It either is or isn’t, tangible or imaginary, yet these fears came to me in both forms somehow. Wide expanses without color, or at times with too much color, with chaotic swirls or else lacking depth.

Or perhaps you prefer enclosed spaces, without escape Just come a little closer why don’t you without even a thread of cohesion. How are they even real? There’s no way in, now way out. How did I get in then? How am I in here when the very nature of this box is that there’s no entrance or exit. Thresholds are null and void in these places yet here I am, here there are things and more colors and more incomprehensible objects that float and seem to breathe without air and seem to survive without sustenance. It makes no sense for them to exist when their existence is an oxymoron, a failure at any form of life or reason. And they loop and they loop and they loop dream after dream in every commercial break in every paused breath. How is this even real? The lack of infinity, an absolute stillness, just as void of life as eternity is.

I fear death more than anything. I realize that now. Still, there seems to be a comfort in a definite end, a punctuation mark that at times comes too early, at times extends beyond pain. I don’t understand infinity. I don’t have to. I guess

DAY 6

The coarse revelry of innocence.

Meaningless nonsense. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.

Look at that. There are birds in a cage. They are safe inside. They are trapped. Multicolored winged beings, sharp beaks and curious eyes that take in the world from an entirely new perspective. I mean, they can fly so naturally they see things differently. I wonder if birds experience vertigo, if the young ones are tremendously afraid of flying before taking that first dive and relying on instinct to sweep in and safe them from potential death. We don’t fear walking at age 2. Well, maybe some of us do. I don’t remember.

I do recall being terrified of letting my mother go in the pool. The shallow end remained so deep from my tiny eyes that barely reached the surface should I stand on that end of the pool.

I had a nice time today thank you very much doing absolutely nothing but a kind of nothing that at least gave me a reprieve and allowed me to not develop a headache. It’s funny how doing a whole lot of nothing can cause physical pain. We need to remain such active creatures, at times against our will.

I’m stuck. I’m stuck and I’m stuck. Stuck inside, stuck on this couch, stuck on a suspended period of time. There’s much and very little to be said about the current state of affairs concerning our pandemic. I mean, it is very much ours. Don’t be alarmed you’re nearly there This was our time, this was our new decade. I had a tough time back in December looking back at the last ten years and realizing how much had changed, how much I’d grown, how little some things time alters yet many others are so vastly different, it’s any wonder we all remain the same people under the same name. And now our very first year in a brand new life remains on pause, halted. Are we truly the architects of our future when every plan and detail and tool escapes our grasp from the moment when we even begin to visualize what time will bring?

We are ghosts at the moment of our own lives. Suddenly our eyes open and all those things we were too scared to do, too scared to say, all those postponed plans and wasted evenings, they came to a screeching halt like a tomato against a wall, splattered and torn to pieces. Sure some pieces can be rescued and cleansed but a trickle of juice escapes, inching down the wall and onto the floor, left only to be cleaned away and forgotten about. Tomatoes are fruit by the way, not that I completely understand that, but it’s edible right?

DAY 7

Hobble down the road

The cut of the deepest smorgasbord on the waxed pavement

Why don’t you Why don’t you Why don’t you just lift the crushion and and you know what? A fur a furred spork So Let’s go

When the bright side of a classy situation becomes the fervor of time itself and the man wires down over the trunk believing that shade and fire and munched mellow copper. Singing beyond the thresh thresh threshold and glass

I just

I can’t

I cannot think.

Anymore. I need to stop.

I just…

Maybe I should pause for a bit.

I…

Wait.

Am I? This is weird. I’m hearing my own thoughts, like an echo. Where…where am I right now? Why… Why am I moving? Who’s moving me? What is this?

Who are you?

Get out of my hea-

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