Lizzy

Most people don’t know this, but the lines in your right palm change throughout your life. I think it’s interesting. My experiences and mistakes are somewhat important for they shape and mold me. But why, why our right hand? Once more I have come to an endstop. No one knows.

Most of what I am curious about none of us know. Knowing aka possessing information. But is any information ever just yours? Yes and no. When the day comes and we acquire a piece of unexplored information, that data is ours to keep. But the little boy inside of us just wants to race out, bellowing at the top of his lungs for everyone to hear. It’s true, it’s true, it’s true. Then it’s out there, no longer ours to possess. Does that mean it suddenly changes? Metamorphosis into something completely different, something we do not know?

I am shoved onto the ground and no one stops to help me up. Christmas is in 4 days and the savages within us are released. The lady with the rabbit ears waits for the owl eyed man to show her where to find the latest hit, the noble prized, or some prominent cookbook. What was life before mass media? Before vampire novels, the great Wars, Ford, advertising… What was the point? Was there even one?

I feel like I am walking on the only strip of green left here. I am brought back to that used, polluted park. The sweet scent of dog crap and baby barf. A man runs in his flip-flops. Plop, Dot. His breath hastens. What does he run from? Why I wonder do I see him almost everywhere I go? Is he the meaning, the answer we search hidden in this drugged up world? A piece of crack, a pile of blow? If yes then why is he running? He should be sniffing, smoking, stealing or selling. The information is out there, and the demand is high. Why won’t he share it? Wouldn’t you?

Mold echoed in my mind – only time will tell. Yet again, time is not linear, but a folded convoluted nephron, carrying the urea and bodily toxins from one place to another. Everything is transferred, never destroyed. The inanity and idiocy I feel will always be hiding there like bad cholesterol. Always under threat of bursting, blocking, killing.

It’s like one minute you feel fine, you really do. You are in the third floor of a bookstore. People push, laugh, want. And so do you.
Then all of the sudden those wants are globalized into stone. Other views, transnationals invade you seeking for cheap labor, resources, and a multitude of favors. Before you know it, the skyscrapers have blocked the sun. The world is black, cold, stripped from anything remotely fun.

You see reality. He is running in his flip-flops. No convections, labels, fancies or perfections. No religion. No soul. You see actuality; she hides where the wind can’t be blown. It is in those times I think I am not awake, not even alive at that. I perceive the world behind a broken glass. Yes, I can see, smell, touch, hear. Do I feel? Yes, I can be observed, do people see me?

No.

People are pushing me, they are in a hurry, and I just stand here, on page 297 of an unfinished book. A blank slate. A battered plate.
You hug me and feel me twitch; take me by my arm, fighting off that bitch. Up, down, right, left. Just there! Only you can see me and shake me out of it.Your brown-eyed touch: the light at the end of the pit.