I want to slip from the searing wrench, slowly turning, and breathe not while I speak, for the words become so worthless.
To scrape up all the dried blood from my bone and rip at the marrow with my teeth as my hand is cast away on the floor.
To look up in wonderment while all the heads look jadedly down at selfish sorrows perceived into existence.
But even putrid existence will not help now, will it, as it acts repulsed at my very being every turn?
Scrape up my words, I will carry on without puking out the last of my blood clot lies and I will slip away then, through the meaningful yet meaningless crowd of minds and spirits.
I want to run and never hide, but rather continue this meaningful, meaningless wandering in the glen by the sea to the plateau of what the crazed ones call fear of a blank life chock-full of solitude.
To never watch my step, yet never slip on the rocks freshly coated in oil-- or is that the blood of the whale where I can see myself fearful yet fearless in its eyes?
Living, what would the intelligent, genderless creature do and seek? Does it dream?
Would it create a meaning to every thing given meaning and leave all to become one mind and entity?
I want nothing to make sense as I would never dare to fear wonder.