The world rages in a choir, whilst I imprison this unsynched tongue to piercing serenity. For among enormous minds, silence is chaos sharpened, an entity I dare not find peace with but where I dare set these gelid breaths afire. Hence, in sights that barely remind me of aching warmth, I crawl to shelter in between the disarrayed spaces of books. To where storms reside in the tranquility of pages. To where I could less be human, and yet more, at once.
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I wallow in a curious language that most regard as muteness. I speak solely through words the eyes discern and the mind decipher in infinite loops. As I do so, the sky reopens, receiving a world more evolved. One of which is mothered by the riots gently stretching my skull from within. Where even the tiniest pores of the air weaken in the attempt of inhibiting what is momentary.
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In there, I am the reality shed by falsehood. An emergence that emerged from renewed completeness. I who is not haunted by fleas that spoil further the decaying cells of living corpses. I who is a slave of demise, yet a god to resurrection. Dare I claim I resurged headfirst to someplace non-existent in earthly bounds, but intangibly pulsing alive. In the life of words, the fragments of searing unrealities inhabit inseparably to my being. As though retracing the slightest imprints from my infancy to define this self anew. And yet preserve this trivial entirety unfolding in layers of skin. Where, most time, I am disguised in new flesh as a mortal worshipped by the sun, an ancient darling whose love was faded by her ancestors, a revolutionary who swore of rebellion, and a tragic spirit ruined by the disaster of romance. And where, sometimes, I swell up with cyclones, shed the skin of a serpent, cough with infinite galaxies, rip off black holes from the pillow of the universe, and choke up from all the comely noises.
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Likewise, in the body of a beholder, there I elegize how the woodland dried into desert upon others' ribcages, witnessing the winds seep through their bones while humming in wild coaxing for them to be with the voids. I mourn even at the doubts of corporality. Until the bold quietness unravel the most revolting unknown of this heart. Until my hollow throat becomes fluent in things words breathe into existence. Until the walls across the core of my neck grow thick and thicker, until they burn with invented relics that linger longer than the truths I unavoidably fed on. And in this thickness that resembles the mass occupying the mind, I willingly inhale suncradled air to outlive the choir-like echoes of violent unbelongingness.
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Hence, this is where I sprout and thrive, in the likeness of seeds watered only by acid rain. Soaked in the fiercest stench of eternal thinking. Speaking and living most loudly in mind with one mouth remaining familiar in vomiting cosmic hushes. Here, where the self is not fettered to an I. Here, where one sleeps awake, lulled by the inflaming outbursts of quietude.
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The images incorporated are personally captured. Thus, do refrain from reusing them. Also, would you mind if I ask for any book recommendation? Please do leave one in the comment section if it sits right with you. Thank you and best of days ahead!
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