(photograph)
i am on the edge of the precipice wishing i could be something more than the one standing here, asking why. (She was never meant to know why she was there). It has nothing to do with one fighting against another. It isn’t about warfare. The soul surrenders to someone bigger. Someone telling it what to say. To its human transport. The cacophony of voices goes silent to listen. (Don’t even try to resist this). The words come in too fast. I try to sort them in my head. It all gets lost. Trying to get it to mean something it wasn’t meant to. (She won’t know what you did in the morning.) I wants to disappear to my self . As a creature that thinks too much.
Going back to the precipice. ( There wasn’t one to begin with). It’s what i saw years ago. Looking over the edge. There was nothing down there. Nothing to fear, no evil face that could swallow me whole. Nothing that would kill me. So is there a reason for being here? Is it merely to know how far this can go. How far out of the way i can go to let that precious flow happen. The one we all want to ride. (She’ll tell you she doesn’t know who she is)
This world of illusion we live in. That we question as being worth staying in. The not real that surrounds us. Is this the work of some great imagination? Being tied up and gagged in a cell with no windows. Life held hostage by love and flesh. Those tools we’ve broken that we can’t put back together again. And the king’s men running around. Frantically not being able to fix things. (That place in her back starts closing up tight, for not letting the voice in.)
Is it you, Maya? Is it you?
c.MA2011
