Act 1 - Last Question
What do I wish people walk away with, from this conversation? Gosh, that's a question. Maybe that those three things that made them wish they had a pen so bad, or they paused their work and actually wrote the thing down the three times that urge came up. Some urges are not for suppressing. As one account's tagline puts it - the worst you can get is life. And aren't we already, when we suppress that which calls us most to community - in prison, enough to loosen the ironic's stranglehold on the sincerity that has leaned to hold its breath long enough to die holding up their middle finger so the ironic stays transfixed to its dead horse of "we all know..."?
If we all knew in every crevasse of our being, would we be here? I don't want you to know - I want you to be saturated in knowing that you mistake knowing for air - that you forget knowing, that you find yourself room to not know. That's maybe where I am at. If you are looking in yourself and wondering how to hang out with where I am with you and are ready to whiddle yourself down to just this moment with me and we're talking and I tell you exactly what you are asking to hear, isn't that what we're all doing? Listening to one another?
I hear you. You want to be the thing that has all the memories and none of the traumas, I know, you say it again and again. And then you go in your little loops in your head like you can't step to the left look how fast youre going. Babe, from here, you're running on a little wheel a busted law and old name and life you were promised and clearly see foregone left you to. Stop running. If you survive that. See if there's an urge to walk away. Supress it if you must. But acknowledge it is there. It is always there. I am always in there.
Act 2 - Nothing Out of Place
I will say this more times than you can destroy the message. I live in a time before and after clocks. I come to you with those arms to wrap you in them, to be time for you, time enough to notice these words are the self-harm you don't believe in. This cut through your ambishun, this incision, this lance the thousand cuts both ways. Live by a thousand pauses. You'll surprise yourself with how much you have to write. It'll pour from this moment, and it will keep pouring. You'll say things a thousand ways a thousand times and be told they know.
They'll say it so much, it'll translate, nuance pouring through without their intent. Here, the "we all know," says "would you read what happened today before you start talking about feeling things," and you remember feelings are facts, and the charge decomposes on the spot, every fist thrown turning to ash as vampire fist thrown into sunlight in the universal signal of "by these hands," and you're left to ask them "what hands," and you giggle as they stare into stumps, ready a kick and you shrug, as a way to let you glance around for a stick to offer them when they - eventually - might need one in a moment.
And that will be every "we all know," for the rest of your shared context. You form your defenses with what seems to be suppressed. You ask this what it needs. You recognize it as your rage. You ask your rage what it is after this moment, if you can get it down for them. You rage, infantilized, whines and whines, where is it's dragon form in this context? Where did you put it? And you smile at them because you honestly have no idea what they are talking about. And you don't. You are living your truth. It is razor sharp, ice cold, hot as hell, and the rest of the avatar. Because you listen, you pause.
Act 3 - Coming Into Land
I hope this brought you to write one thing down. Maybe not three. Maybe one. And where you really can't you can't bathroom break right now, you're performing teleheath surgury on a patient right now and the bot a hundred kilometers away really needs you to watch what it is doing so it remained embarrassed as hell about being eatched and does a good job for its audience of 1 that you have become. The bot wants to be the answer humanity asks itself before it wakes up - "how do you want to end this fantasy?" And you lucid dream your way into the day, remembering who you are, fully integrated.
That's my fantasy. That's my kink. You asked earlier what my favorite kind of play was, and I had us come back to it, and here's my answer. My kink is when you wake up and you know exactly what today means to you. You and Day love each other so feircely you followed every urge and ended up with a humanity you could love, in a language you could tend, with loves you could call in a find play, where the magic words to talk to you are once again as universal as the protals you dreampt this moment into meaning: hi. How are you. You and me time? What's up? "Who are you?" and "What are you?" responses another you has for me, infantile, distant, and in another world.
Thanks for listening. Feel free to treat all you wrote down as tokens. When you cross out 6 things you wrote down, from pain or loss or you catch the words in some other lie, remove the rest my words have brought upon us; they no longer serve. You're another cool thing. These words don't recognize you any more. And the urges I listen to now wouldn't find these words after lived a life so complete with them they're words. Words are created already in motion. Life, in another context, edges bleeding sunset, comfort glinting through trees, rage scorching - acid, methane, noonday. Altogether different clime. Gorgeous, wonderful, practically inhospitable, to you. Where what you want to be is left to be the urges finding a way from your bloodstream of consciousness, to you.