My gods, can we please just change the language of the world? Can't we render something different, scan a different fabrication of our inner illustrations, the play between light photons and neuronal intercommunication? We really need to. The world is too vast for us to let it be drawn out with simple words and phrases, the point would be lost, the realities would be diluted beyond recognition. Pour it all in, distill and recrystallize it, analyze the strange ghostly images on the translucent photopaper, develop it with a new, patented solution of your own recipe. Take all the words and phrases in your arms and hurl them up like confetti, stick out your tongue and catch the descriptions that taste like they oughtta. You'll know. They won't be the slightest bit bitter, but they'll be filled with complex aroma, eroticized, exciting and witty. Throw away the old and stale, take the rulebook and set it alight and dance around it, make the various dictionaries battle it out to the death with rusty implements. We can do better. Paint a better picture. The dark sorcery of language demands it. Never doubt your wizardry.
He was holding his breath for as long as he could, just to impress his peers at the cocktail bar. He was red in the face. He was damaging his brain. He was acting like he was having more fun than he really was. Then she walked in. She was the prophetic painter. She splashed some paint on a canvas and moved it around and said, “This speaks to someone, I don’t know who.” She threw salt on the outskirts of her creation to create a texture. “This is striking someone. I don’t know who. It is striking someone and they don’t know why.” She turned the canvas to the side, painted something that looked like a rotating eye. She said, “I don’t know who, but someone here wants to confess how they are really feeling. Someone here wants to share, but they can’t find the words.” She took her fist and strategically smudged the paint in certain places. “This speaks to someone,” she said.
Staring up at space, the ground beneath me seems to loosen and even disappear. The stars become the floor and i feel myself falling. I become lightheaded and can't wait to get back inside and take a breath. I don't know why it scares me like that, it seems like realizing how small I am and how big the universe is simply unsettles me. I used to think I could probably go to space if space travel ever became safe enough, but now I can't look up at the sky without feeling like i'm going to pass out. This doesn't happen in the day time. When I see a plane go by I always marvel at it. I think about how big it is and how amazing it is that something that large could fly. 'Someone had to build that' I always think. 'Every nut and bolt, every seat, every window, the wheels, the wings, every little part. Then they had to paint it. How did they know it was correct? You could never judge your work from that close to the plane. It must be automated. And someone had to build that machine too. And the factory. And every car that brought every employ there. And now there are thousands of these above and below. And everyday as if routine, someone gets in that plane, starts the engines by remote, calls over the radio to gain clearance, rolls down a length of tar or concrete so great that you can't even see the end, and finally fly. This behemoth of metal, rubber, glass, and god knows what else lifts off the ground carrying as much as it can fit and flies to another continent just as it was designed to do'. The sight of a plane amazes me despite everyone else, but the sight of anything beyond is just shy of vertigo.
When I stumbled through the resistance field I was looking for a place to sleep. I was holding my wounds together with my jacket. I was walking with a limp. When I slept I dreamt of tapioca pudding and chardonnay on a picnic table on a breezy hill. And you were there with your perspective on everything. You were adjusting your position. You were wearing your perfume. When I woke up I was in a prison cell, my wounds were mended with gauze and ointment-goo. (There was no site of you). There were guards in the prison-ways. There were light beams in the alleyway. I was in a prison cell with no cheese or chardonnay. I grabbed my jacket and dashed straight towards the resistance field. And with sparks and jolts I stumbled through.
It's kind of discouraging, you know? I am nineteen and soon to be married. It's kind of scary. Any time we tell anyone, it's a negative response. No one seems to believe in love anymore. It's sad. Sure, I'm young, but that shouldn't discredit any of the feelings that I have inside. I have been through a lot of shit that has forced me to grow up much quicker than the people around me. I am nineteen, but I have more of the maturity and wisdom of an older person. So has he. We are both older adults, trapped in these young bodies. We are old enough to know what love is, and we are old enough to know that this is what we want. We don't want to spend the rest of our youth making the dumb decisions that we have made so many times before. We have both already experienced first loves and broken hearts. We know what we want and what we don't want out of life. It's going to be hard, and sometimes it's going to be lonely. But I think it is worth it. We are both surrounded by so many people who don't support us and who are still stuck chasing after the childish things of their youth. We have both already started growing up, stepping out of those childish happenings. We are young, but we are old too. Don't try to tell us that we are in for a life of misery. We know what real love is. Isn't that enough?