Consciousness

I sit in silence trying to remember the last time minutes felt like hours. I look up at the midnight sky and angle out wincing at the light gleaming from the gibbous moon. It has been a long time since I've availed myself to such torture. Left alone with the rotting gravy that is a mixture of my thoughts and emotions. The amber veins placating my eyeballs, no doubt, give off signs that teardrops have exited my ducts; if for no other reason than to highlight the misery within.

I am. . .dying. . .again. The stench of melancholy is enough to make me sneeze in wanton desire of fresh air. My membranes coil tighter and tighter looking to try and take form of something new, or at least, something less old as these feelings that pervade their every growth spurt. No one or no thing wishes to grow into a stagnating situation. And so it goes without saying that my tireless efforts to bring forth the light within, must merely be a candle that can be blown out by the simplest of winds.

I have found out that I can no longer trust my innocence. That is the new death I speak of. And though it causes many a weary nights, I dip my tongue in vodka gimlets, anxiously awaiting the birth of anew to come. And that anew is less innocent; less vulnerable to the impervious, manipulative nature that is man. And in that instance, I suddenly remember that darkness does not exist; it is only the absence of light that brings the concept into fruition.

And so my new intelligence is the light that takes the concept of my innocence out of fruition. That is the previous thought. The next thought is that I am now blessed; blessed with a new consciousness that opines my relation to the Earth was never one of innocence, but of education yet to be learned.

And so it is with these thoughts that are minutes, but feel like hours, that I am regurgitated back into the world; into the fray of life and limb, toiling with the notion that perhaps the greatest part of me is my mind and not my body. I let that simmer for a while, but it feels fresh like day old buttermilk, tree picked granny apples and grated cinnamon sticks. I know where I come from. And it’s not from a place, as much as it’s from a PLACE. That PLACE is my intelligence that grows by leaps and bounds and allows me to continuously die and then be reborn. Because in the end, I know. . .we all know that this world is within us all and only develops as we too, develop the world within us. My consciousness is alive.