For The One Who Will Not Listen

HEY BEAUTIFUL,

Hi, hey there. Remember me? No?

Damn. Oh well. But it’s cool. I remember you.

How come you’re not listening? That’s… irritating. Like a blade grating, up the back inside of my skull; right where the spinal cord meets the base of my brain somethings being lost in translation. In more ways than one. Huh.

You know it’s probably just me… that’s feeling all these things. Maybe it’s not you, maybe it was never true… that you loved me trying, trying to rekindle, trying to unearth whatever this is… whatever this is we’ve forgotten. Maybe you don’t care anymore. Maybe you never did…

Sure. Let’s keep pretending that’s what’s occurring; that you’ve suddenly and smoothly stopped feeling, with the coolness of a ocean breeze, all these things, all these curious little coincidences and inner vibrations… all these happenings; invisible strings being tugged, rushes of excitability and private heart-jolting zaps, an undisclosed temptation, all these sensations… all these internal pangs, these whooshes of unfed longing, of secret craving I’m over here still trying to detangle; to untie from their knot and set free. Let’s keep pretending that all is well, that all is as it should be… that there is no underlying current of unease, of a clock mysteriously ticking, of something between you and I counting down. But does that feel possible? The drum strikes, the heart thumps, the clock drops its scissored hands… first one, and then the other; first an appreciation for feeling, and then the tidal wave… it’s gotta be decreasing in rhythm, slowing to something; counting down to one moment, to some sort of confluence, to fulfillment, to a release of this terrible ache, to a release of this sensuous, squeezing need… don’t you think? Don’t you feel?

I bite my lip; press the tip ‘till is stings… no; no you feel nothing. Because you’re anesthetized, a steady drip of morphine; because you’re numbing. You’ve muted all incoming messages, all trickles of electricity… all the glittering of dominos tripping, of energy mushrooming, a sacred primordial prism crescendoing, a catapulting frequency of red-turned orange-turned yellow-turned green-blue-violet racing, skyrocketing up the back, up the ridge of your spine; you shudder in step, you shiver with the same urges as I and then you quit… you look on as the siren croons, casting her call; you step off as the locomotive chugs, climbing in concentric circles; you lay down as the dove dips and upon you does not brush against, and upon you does not come to rest… for you have made yourself invisible, the deadened antiquity of where a feeling thing once stood. You have severed it there, there at the juncture where feeling turns to thought… there at the melding point, when lightening strikes the ground; there at crest where your mind under tutelage of your heart does not waver, does not decipher with spools and spools of paradoxical thought but with wisdom embarks, steps forward, looks up… you have severed it there at the crux where the bubbling from your center meets the machine, meets the transformer; where feelings become ideas, become notions, where feelings become the thoughts we act upon, you’ve severed it at the peak of your spinal column where lust morphs and bursts into frenzy, into actuality, into the force of two magnets having found each other now interlocking, now fixed in a state of visceral activity… you don’t speak honestly, you don’t reach for me, you don’t let show your internal world; the appetite to entwine, to merge with my being and synchronously rock, back-and-forth; as one we can do so much more… but no; no you don’t like the pain the comes with living and learning, you don’t like when it hurts…

• And so you drink…

• You use drugs…

• You watch too much T.V….

• You waste your dream on social media…

• You eat chocolate cake until sweetness overtakes…

• You gamble until you’re lost in a haze of diminishing returns…

• You sleep with strangers, you strip bare and lay there until afterwards when there’s nothing left to expose…

• You hide away, you isolate…

• You wrap yourself up in a blanket of cruel statements, of ugly things you say to yourself until there is no more self, until there is only a wasteland, the barren shell you inhabit… and as if by some magic deem yourself “obligated,” deem yourself “right” to desensitize, “right” to drown your “sorry-self” (your words not mine, for I deem you MAGIC incarnate)… you deem yourself “right” to drown away your woes, you deem it “an alright thing to do.” You deem yourself “justified” in muffling that which you do not like, that which you do not wish to feel with external stimuli… you deem it “right to drown yourself.” You choose to squat and rot in the dark, and then you downplay it… you call them “bad habits;” as if these little murders where nothing at all.

But darling, you can’t numb selectively… that’s the thing. When you choose to unplug, choose to not feel… when you severe the connection morphing feeling into thoughts, into comprehension… you severe it all. When you unplug from feeling by throwing yourself into the whorl of external distraction, when you throw yourself off that ledge… you fall, and you fall, and you fall; into a pit where nothing can reach you, it’s true. This pit is so deep and so dark, not even the pain can find you. But you can’t numb selectively… so when you’re down in that pit, hiding out in the dark… darling its my face you don’t see, it’s my voice you don’t hear, it’s my touch you’ll never know; you’re too far gone, you can’t be reached. I could look right at you, I could smile, I could whisper in your ear; I could say “let it all go inside me…” and still, you’d feel nothing. When you choose the path of least resistance, you choose to live and die without knowing me, without knowing what We Could Be; you snuff our budding integrity as human beings.

But it’s cool. Nah, really it’s fine. I can do this on my own, I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone.

I blink once, I cough twice… Who am I kidding? That’s a lame excuse. The raw truth is… and by raw I mean naked, I mean without social graces and polite, artificial bullshit poured over top… the raw truth is: I’m not as brave as I’d like to be either. Maybe I’m an imposter.

But I don’t want that to be true.

So here it is: I love you. And words cannot capture, all the things… I wish together we could do in that moment when it all unzips and melts into something grand, into something bigger than our fear of being seen and behaving as we feel, and behaving as we desire; physically, mentally, emotionally and sensuously filled with pleasure, exhaling together. “The world wouldn’t understand;” that’s what we tell ourselves. And yet, here we are; we’re here on earth, we are souls incarnate. And what we do with these bodies, is up to us.

Let me be your Nymph Of Remembering. I know the way, I can carry you there. For you are Lord and Lordess of the Highest Rank… and for you, beloved Ruler Of The Dream… for you I make myself a playground, a place to explore… to learn what feeling and sensation is really for; I hand you a paintbrush, I make this body your canvas… and through the touch of our skin, through the touch of two humans uniting in rhythm, coalescing as one; through the touch of two bodies… I ask you to color me vivid, to spare not a single hue in the depiction of our explosive release; joy, euphoria, peace.

So, what will you do? Will you numb… or will you “xxx” with me?

(I can’t write what the “xxx’s” really mean… the censors of good feeling wouldn’t like it… wink.)