A chronic fear of thinking small.“Microphronemophobia is the bane of extinction.”synonyms: progress, creation, mutation
When it’s god-awful and ever-blinding “probably-are’s” crowd and haunt every sight you inhabit,
Run into someplace that vibrates with do-this-now and inject-something, pop-something, consume-something sensibility.
Feel how your heart wrenches less and your mind quietly brims with overload, with an outpouring of sizzling desire and fallible question marks, with news of yesterday and the damn-you’s of today. Feel how much more alive you feel at the hands of numbness.
I have a lot of control over my thoughts, you know
But they get short-circuited once in a while
Of their own accord
Sometimes they know better than I do
And wander back to you
I picked up shards of broken glass one day
and cut myself on them.
They tore my skin apart and I laid there helplessly mind-broken and mute-like, regressing into a state of under-dramatized infancy that only my own mother knows what to do with.
I was terrified at the sight of blood that swept through places it had no business sweeping through, reaching up into shelves it had no good reason to feel through. I watched (again, babe-like in the most vulnerable and un-endearing way) at my own morality coming loose on account of me not watching where I was going.
You know it and I know it. You’re dull-eyed and out of luck, but more importantly – out of change. You’re out of clean clothes and out of breath and the last time you thought you could be in of something you were drinking rainwater in the streets of your own neighborhood surrendering to the emptiness that no longer housed you but followed you every step of the way.
The cities were no longer glorious. They were half burnt-out, tired versions of one another.
They were shining and beautiful all the same, but they were no longer the oases that housed the refuges she sought. She thought once that they would lead her somewhere that would save her, but realized she was looking for her savior in all the wrong places.
They would only ever be what she thought she could never have. And finding the things that would always stay with her, the things no one could ever take from her, she found her place everywhere.
It didn’t matter where she went anymore. She filtered the world through inspired lenses of intentional self-deceit and selfishly carried the weight of their struggles on her shoulders.
She saw the same people everywhere. She saw the same lights shining through the dark parts of his and her eyes. She saw the same turbulent lines strain across the same cuts of fabric, stretched across the same miraculous skeletons of fleshy twine and disabling joints.
No matter where she hid or how far she ran, she could never escape the percussion of pulsating desire emanating from everything that passed before her.
Patience, my dear, will serve you well.
Stay vigilant and do not let her slip away. Trust me, she will try. She does not subscribe herself to the mediocre rules of mediocre things. She does not know mediocrity; she only knows refinement. She believes that the best things do not simply come to you, nor are they earned; they are presented at the right time. Do not try to convince her otherwise. She is vengeful and will prove you wrong out of spite.
Seek out bridges. Make bridges your second home and frequent them often. Spend a lifetime finding your favorite bridge. And then find another one, and another one and another. Litter them with your troubles, your victories, your heartbreaks, your insignificant complaints about mediocre inconveniences. Scatter them with zealous joy and and grace them with your melodic dance steps.
Sometimes you feel old. You feel worn, you feel tired, you feel lost. You feel like you’ve already come so far. You feel like it only makes sense that you should’ve arrived at some deep, amazing understanding about the universe by now, damn it!
After all, we’re just human beings who need a little bit of connection now and then.