Where are you?


Where is the beauty of the sunset?
Where is the subtlety of the wind rustling through a thicket of leaves?

Nothing means anything without our participation. If I am shelled, walled with numbness,
then I am a bitter god.

So desperate for the world to see our beauty. To buy into it, to make it grow through collective agreement.
Where is this place where money has no meaning? Where is this place where we are known completely?

The future is destroyed and resurrected daily. The sun is an apocalyptic fire that gives us everything we need from a certain respectful distance.

I want to throw away everything that I own and eat from dumpsters. I want to manage a small village full of folk music festivals. I want to be happy in my confinement. I want to be loved by everyone. I want to be invisible and undefined.

Who am I? What is this world that would skin me, name me, place me? The sunset passes unnoticed except by a happenstance glance. The wind blows unheeded, another subconscious occurrence like refrigerator noises.

What more could they be? I am trying to look and listen, but missing something inside of myself.

Words written out of a necessary desperation.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

4 thoughts on “Where are you?”

  1. “Words written out of a necessary desperation.” – Yes. Yet, when these words are written out, is despair conquered?

  2. Despair is never fully conquered, perhaps, but it is certainly eased. I always feel better after having spit up some fragmented alien depth of myself I didn’t know existed.

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