The Story Of Being Alone


the shot of a glance. kurtle decided that to be was to not exist knowably. and to hold it in, until the dreams were destroyed completely, brutally. he took in the hit of inspiration and died honorably, soaring into the mud in pieces. this is what happens when you have nothing and want everything.
kurtle created fantasies which turned into nightmares. and then they were nothing but awakening pain, full of watching, full of someone else’s eyes watching distantly, shutting off the understanding. skin. stranger. at the wrong place at the wrong time.
‘nothingness produces snow; quiescence produces yellow sprouts (Chang Po-Tuan)’
the silent bearing will lead to spring. kurtle sees that now the sails have sunken beneath the weight of their own production, waiting for wind that will be strong enough to lift them. thirsty in the sun, there is nothing panic will do. this is something of survival, not of triumph, not of victory, bringing home the spoils. i am lost, kurtle exclaims, looking
into the horizon, i am pointless, dying in my ignorance. the only thing that will save me now is not myself. the only hope i do not possess. i may die here, and i creep forward heavy still, never knowing.
and suddenly the rain comes, part of the season, part of the wind, part of the time. kurtle finds himself alive, growing into himself.

the other is an illusion. it was his desert. his jungle. his mind. his desire.
and what is left? who is kurtle? what shell shade under which he hides?

there is only the point at which he departed, and the point at which he arrived. there he is, sand steps painted on the dunes.

now where are you? where do you fit in?

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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