Abstractions

To be taken out of context. The tree that finds itself still amidst a wind of colorful rain. The petrichor of youthful bliss. In bloom; the belle of the ball. Footprints in a sandy aisle; those white petals drizzling in my mind; those vines grappling at your tendrils– a travesty. Sorrow emerges from the ground of uprooted soil; the stains of wet paint calcified on your bedrock.

What have those words given me? A thunderstorm. A sunset. A horizon. Sight; sighs. A crown of ink. These hands. To have the ground underneath rumble words of betrayal. A thin film of soapy residue, bubbling in a vacuum.

And what did Plato really mean by the good? What were Nietzsche's dancing stars? Why Darwin when in the end, you lose? Lost without a cause, body without embodiment– the wind whispers the screech of your mind's window.

I know better than your impermanence; your non-cyclical metamorphosis. Angry or tragic? No either/or within the choice of the same problem. What else? I'll take twenty! Find me in the lost and found. I'm locked in a cage of two-toned sunburst Fender Starcasters, showroom paranoia in a downtown ceiling, meteor dressing in disguised metaphors. "Only a god can save us"*; no, we are already saved. Grace calls us to melt our hearts into a photosensitive gaze.

While modernity fabricates clothing with meaning, martial arts with feeling, philosophy with religion– you betray these words with those words. You hear my words as those words (those threats to stupid action), dumbfounding. No world can console a worldless phenomenon.

Rows of light, rivers divide, cast a spell on the sensuous tonight. More-than-human, with human, witholding your cards, keeping your faces on. Traverse, travel, journey along with the key, put her in your lock and never let go.

The gap widens above, in the sky. A slit of time, a ripple in distance, stretched to a gape. Agape is foreign, out of this world, but this world passes away; it was coming up, crashing down and turning inside out what remained of my core. My rootedness is in my stretching–we were a stretch: different, separating, becoming new immanently.

My legs are adventitious, mobile, kinetic; just as you wander into loves, I wonder at the world you've shaped and left behind.

You creep into my thoughts; I want to trap you! You, me, any outstanding grudge on who should be responsible for all this mess. My! My! Can a philosopher be ruled by love?

I am a rising tide without a shore to crash into. My thoughts are filled with sea shells and crumpled receipts; my pockets aren't lined with anticipation anymore, just reminiscence and my phone.

I want to say something but I'm paralyzed by your indifference to my wanting to say something.

Philosophy is a kind of poetry; our existence is poetic; commit to the flames my romanticism, my ideation, my existence, poetically and with every burning intent.

My life is now ambient; light embers kindle the sparks of little moments that contribute to the background aesthetic.

The drone of life hums along until from out of nowhere you're stuck with the simple realization that life's terrors come from its farness above us, ready to obliterate our life, and turn it into a state of groundlessness.

Show me a philosophy of life, I'll show you a theology of death. The distractions in-between have become apparent.

You held on, I leaped. You harden not my heart, I seek a new one. Renew in me my faith in your goodness. The heart rules the sight, the mind rules the magic, Your love persists even when I fall out of it. My prayer is a call. What calls for prayer is a calling. To focus attention on the inner life, bustling, rumbling, shaking, beating, living, dying, recycling. My heartbreak is no coincidence for prayer; in fact, prayer constitutes such possibility for a heartbreak. For my heart cannot break if not for it becoming soft– open to being of all kinds: Being-in-love, being-in-the-world, being-towards-death, being-broken-hearted. It is only in You that may make my heart anew, to build up, to edify my base, to prepare for fallen time to fall away, and contemplate goodness; this is my salvation– I am saved out of love and it is through love, a good love, that I may gaze into the world again and disclose the being-toward, being-with, being-for. Immortality through You; with open arms, I leap.

In losing you do I realize how much you're worth; lingering doubt for the lies of the star studded sky. But now, I leave you as you did me, to go and do something else. We've lost each other, we were always present but not anymore. We lost our essence**, and endure no longer.


* From "Only a god can save us"
** from the roots of the german word for essence: [Wesen] as derivative of "sein"– being, enduring as presence.