mephausto

sometimes too much heartache becomes a Sunday Suicide, a melancholy disruption to what should be relaxation, a large stone of pain in the placid waters of a clear mind, sudden swells take over what I thought was just a ride and life's hue shifts from pleasant to invasive, some sort of somebody becoming some sort of something else entirely as the repitle on the inside takes over, bringing the dragon and hunter both, a lucid dream hijacked beyond my control and I can't help but run, run from the monsters seeping out of the walls and my own pores until it's all wiped clean by zen wishes and an escape into nothing, into powerlessness, into an intentional dynamic failure of control as i fall into the rabbit's hole once more, seeking this carnival of conflagration that is life and it's chaotic errata, forming and breaking up patterns and cycles as it all appears so unreal that rationalizations change and create new schemas of what happens around me, new interpretations of life fantastic and delighting, like some new twist on an old toy, tinkered and polished up until the new shine distracts me from the same old shit, the walls declining, leaning in and threatening to pin me down and trap me under the sun to lose sight and moisture until i'm begging for the relief of water and shade, but this is nothing new just the same old cliffside to balance precariously upon, to remind myself of the fear stemming from a toe's length over the edge, the thrill of the potential flight and the relief of the collapse back into the dewey night grass, swimming in the stars and breathing in the moon, but it's never just me, it's never just me, it's always all of you, celestial and mysterious, renewing and decaying with waxing and waning, the only thing i ask of you is the dreams you may inspire, the rest is yet to come.