Manifesto read roughly, falling into sleep, waking to more blood. As usual, this isn’t a confessional, it’s a clarificational, clarity to combat manifestos.
I have absolutely no idea what I am doing here, I mean, I don’t and I do.
I’m not getting older I’m getting thinner,
stretched out on the horizon before and behind.
There is intent and there are side effects, they blur together as they move into the distance.
Spiraling out in a paradigm shift, I’ve destroyed the servitors made to bring me out and protect me.
I do not have the resources to get out and, as discipline demands I’ve burned all the bridges behind me.
I am a rock, an island landlocked and no manner of song, spell or poem will unbind.
I’m not getting older I’m getting thinner, stretched out on the horizon before and behind.
I now have passengers in my care, marked like me 23, that I’ve landed here at the end, toward what end?
I can’t find the combination of gestures, the code or the gods-damned door to get us out of the way.
I have erected the corners in line with the stars that I still know how to find. I light the fires on what I think are the right nights, and I wait, and they grow.
Then there is that matter of time, it’s not speeding up, it’s lengthening.
I’m not getting older I’m getting thinner, stretched out on the horizon before and behind.
Then there is the awareness, while I am an island to the human race, I expand in other realms beyond my kind, my eyes.
The wild dogs, the hawks, rats and the bacteria puddled in the street, Oh! the land and Oh! the dead, they talk to me.
©EschatonLife
This piece is included in Eden Bloom Eschaton Life
