Like a leaf, I fell to the pavement. Slow motion, a gentle swoosh, before settling into the mercy of the wind. As I laid there, I wondered when a gust might take me away to some foreign destination. Away from home. From these roots I have grown.
Cheek touching pavement. With a cold, jagged, kiss.
On extra cold nights, when the wintry air attacks your face with the fury of a billion tiny cuts, I am reminded of moments face down on slab of concrete. Late night liquor burning a hell inside warm enough for the Devil and I.
Oh, we danced.
Breathe in the icy air, breathe out a memory.
I eye the moment warily. I mutter some saying I saw on a bumper sticker or postcard or somewhere to myself about living in the now. It chalks up to nothing more than verbial garbage. A poor man’s mandala. The irony astounds.
“Live in the now.”
More sighed than whispered. The words creep out of me. Cracked and hollow.
You have to really believe for it to work, a worried inner monologue spouts. I am too busy falling to pavement, trying to catch the emotion rushing through the air with a butterfly net of blood splatter emanating from various cuts and gashes. I never could follow my own advice anyways. I embrace an emotional vertigo, searching constellations for a sating of basic desires. The concrete serves as litmus strip to the levels of emotion I carry in my sanguine essence.
I have grown far too fond of feeling emotions in their most raw and unrefined form. To feel them any other way seems sacrilegious. It seems like stomping the good shit with baking soda. I couldn’t cut my unrelenting urge to feel with something as basic as normalcy.
I’ve lost grip on The Now. I haven’t just lost grip, I’ve flung it across the room allowing it to shatter against the wall. The Now, now laying in it’s wreckage after saying. ‘nice to meet you’ to a wall.
It’s become apparent I don’t know how to feel alive without breaking everything inside.
As I lay there in my wreckage, coughs intersperse the blood-soaked laughs. Saliva runs crimson thick, planting wet kisses in the dust. The concrete. Thousands of tiny pieces somehow coming together to form something.
I never could get my own mixture quite right. Always breaking. Splitting when I needed to withstand.
I wonder if I can stay in the fall forever. Never need the hit on either side of the moment, just the gradual descent between it all.
That’s when I always felt. That moment. When I began to break. The slow shattering into a million little pieces. It’s there I always felt alive.
The cheap tether of kitsch sayings tugs. Frayed, threatening to break, pleading with me to bring it back in. Begging a cut of simplicity into a thrashing life rife with instability. I reach out for the cord, hoping this won’t be the time it breaks. As much as I enjoy the moment filled with pain, I pull myself in with the rope. A prayer forms on chapped lips.
Pull me in. Just this one last time. Before I suffocate. On ‘Feeling Alive’.