The clearing,
it’s barren.

An obvious statement but it’s so blatantly so you could swear it was glowing with it’s own luminosity, just sitting there, a white and ash-filmed patch of nothingness in the middle of a dusty back-road, like a stark reality in the form of a ghost dog wearing an expectant, hopeful look before jerking and hitting you in the face with a bucket of cold water while you were day-dreaming about childhood, about how nice it would be to crawl back into the womb and make a fantasy out of life.
I’ll tell you, some people do that.

I feel like a cow, standing in a chute, waiting to be siphoned off to slaughter and fully aware some parts of myself have to die in order for all of this to work because parts of you are always dieing and always working with old instructions, like they didn’t get the memo or were laid-off or something, and are looking for work in the same field, not thinking they may just not be cut out for it. This is the point that you really need to take a cold, hard look at the reflection in the metal knives clinking and cascading in front of you, because they’re the only ones who can tell you what needs to be cut out and they’re the one’s who’ll dictate where those pieces of yourself will be shipped to, off to some foreign land where your disassociated selves can carry off their respective tasks in peace without interrupting each other like three boisterous cooks hovering over the same recipe or three intoxicated frat-boys hovering over the same toilet.
I guess it depends on how you look at it.

I feel like, a Tetris cube staring down at the shadowy matrix of every cube that came before and seeing every turn and step where they’ve erred but not sure how I fit into the situation but becoming increasingly aware that the ground below is getting closer and the room’s getting awfully hot and my gaze is oscillating at the horizontal layout just like the small, drunk flies who never seem to manage flying in a straight line, and I keep looking, re-adjusting and repositioning myself and wanting so badly to just give up the charade and assimilate into the machinery and drown in the starving hands because they need to steal parts of my identity.
Wanting the machine to not be broken.

And I feel like a moth hovering towards lonely patch of light in the darkness because I’ve always felt that suffering was somehow beautiful when marveling at how it made the tiniest pinprick of a star seem like an blaring LED light heading towards you, full shine-on, to the point where you can only drive blindly forward ‘cause the fucker won’t turn off his god-damned brights and that incredible moment of bewilderment and relief when you both finally pass each other. It’s like the cliche statement they blurt out while you’re dying to head towards it because everyone knows the yin turns into the yang and backward retrenchment is only backwards into barbarism.
You can never change the past because you already know it and that only increases the likelihood that you would repeat it if you tried.

I feel like death is just the end of a siphon where all your options have come back from vacation in the expanse of your life and decided to meet up at some predetermined point that only they and the surrounding universe knows about. I feel like getting older, my choices begin to be filed down but not in a way which is limiting but one which is cutting off the excess parts of me and in filing down my options, filing me down to my core. I can’t complain when I’m forced into the situation of poverty because the riches I was covering myself up with were never me to begin with and anyone who thinks you are what you like doesn’t really know you.
There’s an excess to rebirth,
I just want to know it when it’s happening.