I am listening to space.
Not as frightful as the ocean because its reaches are wholly unknown, its habitations imagined, its growth so long as to be a legend.
Like the Spirit that bade him die on a reverent mountain in dusky spring with whores and Romans weeping. Blood on the tracks of his feet. His father gone, gone, gone to the reaches forsaking his flesh for our sins or something, something, something, something I don’t remember thought it’s fair to say that I never really learned more than was necessary to pass from one rite to the next before I learned about death and sex and the sweet sweet of the devil’s visage.
His tongue bade me better before the ALL.
Or I didn’t learn then.
I only mentioned enough to imbibe blood and body.
I only wanted salvation.
I only wanted the reason.
I only did what I was told. I only followed the footsteps. I only managed my time by the filial line, crooked as it was by sadness and dying and it would be years before I reconciled that youth if I have at all.
But I won’t now.
Tonight, the stars are singing back to me from satellites and I feel like I am doing a disservice to the universe by keeping my eyes wide instead of laying down in the dark and dreaming of the future.
I’m trying. I’m trying.
And that might just be the problem with me. I try. Too often and too foolishly and when I don’t try I bury myself in the dust of failure like so many fathers before me.
I succumb SO easily to the abyss.
I give up when I should give in.
I’m so used to the noise, though. I’m so used to the shame and the tumult of days in and days laid waste to the barren that I don’t know what to do when the fires stop burning so bright.
Because I have forgotten the light.
An electric origin story, lost to pulp and lies and I wish I could remember it as ardently as I did when I was young and given to the mystery but wonder has eluded me lately and I’m not even really sure if I want to rekindle the history but I’m afraid of who’ll have to be if I do.