Rabid Individualism Claims Another Victim.

I felt it and then I didn't and I wrote it down but it couldn't be found. I jumped off a high place with everything blurring around me like headlights on the highway nightscape with the aperture wide open. When I look out over the expanse the sparks keep me quickly throwing my hands to my pockets to make sure it's all there. But it wasn't there to begin with. My face slowly contorts with fireworks making their final entrance with a whoosh of embers and gasoline. These things we are made to think are ours ignite into flash and light. My hands lay down along the riverside and the crew yells cut but I don't get up. The water keeps its current and the clouds lose their path. My eyes rotate: they get red and loving. I want my life to be something that is left behind for the treatable illness. I want to keep sway in the near twilight when the body has given up. A rubber thing all dead and lively, up there in the dark.

The tachometer underneath the skin covering my forehead lets me know pretending is fun and feeling the temptation to take a risk is quite the same as seeing my hands do things I didn't approve. The whole thing that we all do. The everything we say our lives are. The things we say to ourselves. These loose strings are our hands doing things we didn't approve of.

Control, control. To have control over this. Seeing the car that holds your family leave your sight and your hands shake yet they keep going. Its something you can't see; the next track seems to be a big deal, but control is so elusive. They're right around the corner. I tell people things but each statement is a prayer for myself. I tell people what I wish I was. It's just so much easier to tell everyone to be what you want. And deeper is understanding of a thought. There is something underneath everything. I just hope that what is above things I do is something looking down. No more of this kept at bay feeling. You know it's not the truth: its not. I don't want every spark to be my basis for life. I want something to build up, possibly fall. A continuation of things is not giving up.

I put all these things in my body that tell me I can't live without them. I believe them until I'm absent from the room. Getting distracted by the refraction of the sun and knowing the world is a ground upon which seven billion trod. I kept something in my heart to make me special but it's weathered day by day. Because I have a feeling that all these torrents of emotion are nothing. Concession, concession. Why keep this absence going? Closing my eyes, an afterimage of fire dancing upon the insides of my eyelids.