One

"earth"

And death is the only thing infinite

Circle of life- Carmen Twillie, Lebo M

Ariem

It started as a theatre performance that could be viewed from the sky. Ariem had a clear view of everything from the palm of sand he was on. He read what he had jotted on his scripts in chicken scratch handwriting as the music reverberated through the atmospher

How to move forward without really letting go of the past. How to reverse the conveyor belt of existence without disrupting its ample function. How to live again without remembering what has been lived before. To die is to be given a second chance at existing in the infinite, as we say, death is the only thing.

He stared at the title he jotted. Then I laughed at myself because one time, after failing to adjust the horizon I tried to set the sky on fire. I tried to set the giver of utility, the  builder of bodies of water aflame. I tried to encapsulate its fluid resplendence 
Beauty stops me, the ombre wisps of heaven and hell taunt me. They tell me that no matter what I do, I will always and forever have a place on earth no matter how many people tell me I dont.

How the hell am I supposed to idolise heaven if hell keeps on following me. How the hell am I supposed to look at myself if I'm scared of loosing my truth. If what is false shields me from the harsh rays of honesty. And its infernal gaze. The gaze that reveals it all. The imperfections of my skin

I sit on the toilet, lamenting over the fact that the very images I cherish turn three dimensional. I fell in love with someone that didn't exist.

My mind, which they're memorizing

The last time I had to see a psychiatrist I had to fill in a form. To be quite honest I marked most questions without a second guess. Yet I got a hundred percent.  

A mind that adheres to words that aren't for them. She sensed 

I ran away from you. Yet I envied the fact that you existed freely. You loved freely, without the claws. The jaws closing in on your leg. Atonement cannot be found in death. If anything, all we find when we search for mortality is fear. And the obsidion black of loneliness. 

Earthis a blank canvas. And as human beings we happen to be the blue and green of its beauty. Though we are not immortal, the resplendence of earth will forever apprehend the bleakness and stagnancy of death. 

Without the r of our existence, and the fear of death, there is no earth. Only the barren canopies of stagnancy and all we have is dynamic are the skies of tommorrow. The rains of get it out, scream if you need to, theres nothing more destructive than the ferrous magma of internalization.

The tectonic plates of idolising Gods that aren't. The fluid movement of the addictive haze known to man as the rat race. That gliding through gravel as though you're a ray of light gliding through the atmosphere. That synchronized swimming in space, the death of our dear inertia

All he knew was that he didn't write to make sense. He wrote to get it out and make shitty art, he wrote to slow them down and gain whatever control whatever he could of his racing thoughts. 

Forgotten pacts, empty promises and a lack of chronology characterized his solemn life.  He wrote for days about trying to salvage yourself after getting lost in the maze of nonexistence. He wrote about how he was able to see into Brionnys dreams as though her head and ind wee made of glass. He dreamt of a simple life of heights. Over the water and lights and all the mistakes of the world masked by affluence. In the shadows of death and all that is undesirable.