prying at the floodgates

there was something wrong about it. it almost seemed too easy. whereas before there was a struggle for words, there were now too many. every word one could want and five shadows of each, pulling the meaning in different directions. It only made sense to keep it up, there had been nothing before and now there was something. and as the light moved over it, expanding as if spilt over the surface of it, it was again clearly nothing really. the same as it had been before, but now there was no ignoring it. A car crash, a cross-eyed babe, a squirrel with a bloody rat's tail, something's dead on the highway staring at a billboard with too many words on it to read driving at 85 -- but truly, that's all anyone ever wants. it's not what would say, but observe the effect of it. people need constant reminding they exist. once breathing becomes commonplace, it's difficult to hold onto the idea of continuity, but from the time you're first alive to the time you can't tell time again, there's something different about you, and only then. past the bookends, things look the same. they are empty page, they are the insides of your eyelids. there's something there still, but it's hard to broach the threshold of awareness, something constant, currents of air -- it's hard to hold it firm and have the focus to stare at it until it disappears, and to keep it hidden, and to not forget where you are. easy as breathing. there's no ownership, everything is appropriated. steal what you want, it won't make you happy unless you know what you're doing. you'll never know what you're doing unless you know why you do it. try something different for once.