Can words pour from a page?

I wish I could install a tap into my head and drain out this dullness, like how they bleed syrup from a tree. Just short of actual pain, but so, so very bothersome and disruptive, hampering toward productivity.

It was three years ago when I faceplanted into this madness, wasn't it? Tonight, again comes the desire to freewrite, to--





yet,

I

At this point, what have I...?

One summer in 2013, I read a book called Gemini that broke me out of that spell. I was scared to even touch the book henceforth. Maybe, if I were to open it again, this time it would lead me to dive back, nose in?

I miss my source of passion. I don't want you to only exist as a flicker of warmth at the bottom of a recessed well, available only if I reach, hand pulled through head, innard my self.

Let them push past and through.

The urge for words

suddenly pours forth. Have I mixed with colors for too long?

Meaning of the color blue. Feelings surging through. Where are you? At vision's edge, if only I could peel back this skin, this air, it intuits true that you would be on the other side. Both or one, you.

Sky and Sea are simultaneously the closest things together and the farthest things apart. Where they meet...

066. Vanitas

Expression barred by hands and mouth; seeking refuge in sleep. But even sleep won't cure problems rooted in nonexistence.

005. A fighting spirit

How does one keep direction? What amount of blind self-deceit is necessary to sustain prolonged belief? So much of existence gets filtered out by habituation. What we communally don't see shapes our objectivity.

260. Human warmth

I really have nearly forgotten how nice it feels. Now would be the right time to go back to the phone lines, but the issue of schedule stands solidly in the way.

My feet are grounded (Are they?) in stability, but impulse lies at less than an arm's stretch away. Sometimes the urge feels so disturbingly palpable and palatable that I become engrossed with desire to factually find the cliff I've so often seen in a vision as refuge. An occurrence made frightening by its coming and going without a pattern of predictability. I allow myself to be dragged down, strings attached, by the same practicality and insatiable perfectionism that prevents me to flee via other venues as well. Thwarting my own escape, by all paths?

Small reliefs and distractions are all that still keep my glass-sharded innards contained within this tissue paper skin, conflicted in standpoint, reluctant of change, cowed by sacrifice, immobilized in the name of responsible care.

243. Kaiba

What burns is a hideous quarantine, the encumbrance of isolation as an island, walled off by solid flesh rather than liquid water. Words and visions bubble underneath skin, with only so little that can manage to break through this prison of consciousness. How many of their brethren arise from within only to die, still trapped inside? Absorbed back into this torturous body, unspoken, unexpressed, forgotten by the limited mechanisms of the physical brain. Loneliness in the cold knowledge that no one could meet me here, know me here; loneliness that can't be satiated by simple company from other flesh-walled (but unaware of such) entities.

I want to pour forth. No more of this suspension in space.

Where are you?

That larger stream of consciousness, the fabled universal language.

Manifestation of physical memory in space, even if cyclically devoured by the monster known as kaiba. The loneliness of Warp is something Neiro can neither contain nor pierce through. Even then, she...

Mr. Yuasa, is this something you understand?

235. Immensity

Something different about how I sense the world. The subtle feeling of lessening fluid pressure overhead, anticipation for that instant my open mouth can break surface to drink in cold drenched air.

What is it?

Like Helianthus tracing the sun overhead, my disjointed face trails this forever-approaching future. Streak through me, rain me down. Threading endless water in free-fall.

A favorite number

White fleeting thought chased bubbles sandal-splashed feet puddles in shade in shine in flickering flickering bickered wickered sunburst starshine moat. Weathered bluff, wind-drifted, feathered mouthful of fluff. How do ideas take shape? These gestures to get fingers rolling reaching touching typing freewriting to overcome a supposed bottlenecked traffic jam of flow? (Bottleneck, bottle-naked, bottleneckéd effect)

Age is a label (one side sticky) ruthlessly slapped onto the side of our tin glass jar skin. Our preserved contents are unaffected (unless exposed to open air), but that smooth exterior is not above the wear and tear of time. Another year 'til my supposed peak, an inflection point after which bears characterization of increasing disparity between perception of the self and perception by the outside.

What do we project?

We live most of our life post our biological prime.

Why is this not horrifying to anyone else (our age)? Death hasn't bothered me since age six, but the concept (and unspoken prospect) of physical and mental deterioration is suddenly terrifying.

-

If rarity defines value a la 物以稀为贵, then does transience mark beauty? Transience at the root of all worldly tragedies. Transience as proof of life.

We can only pretend to share a nosferatu's point of view.

Sibyl, who asked Apollo for eternal life, failed to also specify eternal youth. How easily we assume the two go hand in hand.

Senseless words rolling off tip of fingers and tongue

And in thick words we breathe, are tied, bound to thin-pressed legalities and responsibilities to rope twine together, roll mauve and blind green, drinking in premature gestures of sun and spring. Sung in high praise for the price of choice, price of freedom, price of picking the path of lukewarm resistance with no cost-reducing enzyme or ATP coupling.

Again this looks like a year with no spring. I coil in repulsed anticipation for the first hint of summer threatening to gorge down even this, this, relatively-tame albeit month-too-early, so-called spring. Like the onrush of another side-along exponential experience, though I don't too-much-mind that one at all. I anticipate.

This future.

Reveling in its endless possibilities, and reconsidering again what I once dismissed as impractical impossibilities. Drop an idea in my lap, and then totally leave. That is the way to turn a blind-due-to-stubborn me around. No bullheaded nagging insistence will intrigue or work magic like that. That was the newness. That was his secret.

That, and I was entirely willing to be swayed.

The tapestry analogy

Like the joy that would be felt by blind fingertips aimlessly grating scraping peeling along unforgiving mortar grooves of an immeasurable brick wall, enduring exasperation and fear in deep self-conviction and stubborn refusal-to-be-proven-wrong, only to delve for a tapestry-disguised tunnel only hinted to exist in slick slimey hearsay...if even a thread from the fraying edge of that heavy textile was felt in place of farther grainy cement; if even the first hint of spring-breathed flowing air breezes hope through barrier of hollow to dust to cloth to wall to the blind, blind you, in the z axis, out relative to this white space.

He merely sways with the (to him, uncertain) wind, still shied away. Still shimmering, shimmering, ablaze inside. Haloed in the evening sun.

Compressed lips for maximum impact

To wield words as pixel brushstrokes to lash meaning, feeling, pulse. There is some wild satisfaction in that plus added convenience of touch (plus) speed (minus) carpal pain of dragging sore wrist through scratchy scraggy lead and pulp and mixed fibrous mesh.

Fine balance sobre finer bounds.

Needle-sewn lips.

Up, down, up. Zig zagging through. Like the pain of swallowing nettles, once I get through it's through.