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 How do you begin writing A Story of You half-way through the changing process?

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A call to Reflection

Reflecting on the reflection of an orange glow sitting across the camera lens. Seeing the times go through this metal capsule. Feel myself high, but I ain’t. My hand feels as if its central nerves are coated with a metallic sheen. My hand just vibrates. I can see the steps before me. Standing around me. Center stage. One. Two. Three. Three trees are here. They glow. They move. Like that orange flicker of a light across the lens. They swirl, around its central frame. A central force. Gravity carrying the frame forward. Inward. I hope you can see it. But you can’t. And I can’t show it to you. Steps all around. Think I’m missing someone. Nah, I ain’t. Subconscious of the present gets in the way of the past. Of the reality for the sake of the drama. His drama. My drama. I forget how it goes. Back to the picture. To the essence of a bullshit, long-ass rant. 

Trees. A top pedestals. Ulcers. Part of a show. Give and take. I could take. Maybe not. Part fo the equation. TO help, but I ain’t. The metal glow sees me and I see it back. I grow angry at this orange monster. Nostalgia grips me. I move away. Am I becoming dumber? Hopefully not. I listen to the music as I tune into the past. Hungry for a word, for a quote, for something outside of this angry monster. Don’t read deep into this. Into this load of shit. Am I still writing? Singular reflections.

The metal sees me. It flexes its anger. It flickers. I am really hungry. You are right by the back of this glowing embers. Sweet life of Zack and Cody. Tree. Three. Three. A golden miscarriage. I am gay. I am hungry. I am done. But still I live.

One day you’ll die free. Listening to the rainbows sing.

But people yawn and forget. Forget the compliments. Forget.

My dear refugee, I see the suffering. And sitting on the throne is the one without the right to hold it.

The light. Wait and see. Because it’s easy to write a story. A man of a man. So high so high. Shit, stop talking. Stop throwing up your hands. Correct my ligaments, those up for exhibition at the show. And tell me. Tell me to forget. The daughters, and the sisters, the brothers. Of this small reunion. Of the world, of my mind, of a will struggling to keep his shit together.

Write. Faster. Feel the flow. Lights bathe your body in neon. Lights. They can’t haunt. Not when you say farewell to those deserved, to those I didn’t want. Those I can no longer see.

I live as a I walk. These feet are my wings.

Batman. His bats are descending with Santa Claus hanging onto the tail-end. Superman chases. Going in his room.

Write minors thoughts. More thoughts. More thoughts than this pen might write. Think more. Break the glass. Shatter the time restricting you, constraining you to think slowly, think reasonably, adopt the status quo. Status quo, what the fuck is that?

Thoughts fly faster. faster. In this land of fruit flies I know my mind is what I’m listening to. The waves descend and I listen to them as well. All fucking waves. Wanes. Ones. Escape the sin which descends as lightning hurls itself into a fist, pummels the rusted-fragile Earth.

Where I write. And I film. And I die. Fly.

Listen to me. Don’t you dare grow quieter. Listen to me. Expand. Listen. I’ll guide you by hand. And descend a darkness (not The Darkness), a darkness, together. Listen to this hell. But in it are trampolines. Which all our ghosts have grown to hail. Do they hail? No no. No.

Not descend. No.

Darkness, it is sufficient to say I’m not thinking. Still, I’m thinking more than I thought. 

Film. One short film. A day. Any day. Listen to my caress. Listen to me fail.

I think but my mind runs faster.

A day. The film. Film as they play.

Listen to me my friends. My brain. Stop.

Stop. Can’t make it.

Listen to my sacrifice. I can’t guide myself through your tree line. But still listen. I listen. But you listen. So we listen. To forget. Forget the why we’re here. The where we’re from. The noise of our feet breaking. Breaking this mother-fucking ground. Because we are not ghosts stuck in a silence. We are ghosts living it up. Going around, flowing in our past and future selfs. Not restricting ourselves in this moment, but going layer by layer. Frame by frame. Building, being. Us.

Film. That’s what it’s all about.

Break a frame. Stop listening.

Addicted. Addicted? I’m not addicted. Sun is addictive. Son don’t listen.

A movie. A frame. A deferral. Forgiveness. Shit I’ve corrected it. I’ve connected it. To this. To this world. this ulcer? Artist listening. 3D TV. I’m happy. Listen. Ulcer not.

I’m hard. I read. When I read? Reality TV. But 360. Sixty per year. I grow tired. The room is quiet. There’s laughs. The smoke rolls in. WHat’s happening surely beats me. I’m down. On the ground. It’s freezing. I’m dead. But I’m not.  Because the movie

  • my life continues. But still I sit listening inside this room. Sixty a year. A vision. I see a highway. A high, a way. Out. Ahhh. The rage. The terror. My terror? A book I’d rather not read. Reality continues. 

Listen to my soul. That which I burry. My horcrux to this world. The world that’s tearing open my mind, you see. The soul? The aftermath? Chicago is calling. I forget. Past, present, future. No matter. It doesn’t matter. But life matters. I’m off on a tangent. Lost the page. Let’s continue.

A second state glows. My second state. Part of a feeling. Part on your way. 

Lands collide. But I laugh at the wind. Whatever that means. See? Mind takes revision. The tree, so high. Vision of steel, I stand. To rise. Taller. Taller as the movie theatre empties. Land swept but churning. Listen to my man. He speaks. Faster than my mind as it tears deep inside me. A gap. It finds me. Found me. I’m lost. Just kidding, I’m found. Senseless mutter. A senseless whisper. No one will read this and I know. So I could be writing anything - everything - and it wouldn’t make a difference. I forget how it goes. The lie.

The land. Yes, the land. Continues.

They step closer. Looking. I can’t escape. The voices glare at me. Press their sound into my listening body. Step closer. In. I can’t shake them. Out. I can’t move them. Push them. Stray them. Away. They are listening. The wake. It grows louder. They see to know my name.

Imagine being able to escape. Words new sounds. New lives left to explore. New takings. New visions. Not a religion. Just listening. To the world. To its lights. To kicking every sign. Over. By design.Because the tent it’s growing higher. Taking a dimension of the immigrant’s portal.

Brain speeds up. Messes up. I play it like a violin. Such an awful transition. I part. It rubs me. I am able to wear it up. This dream. And now I feel like a woman? Naked. Shake it off. Stop it. Stop me. Make it. Pip. Pip. Papi. Make it. Make it. The jump. A whisper. Drags me closer. 

Stop. My friends you are getting colder. My mind speaks the wind. I don’t need a jam to be able to look beyond what it is I think. Because I don’t mind this chaos, this new way of thinking. At least, it keeps me free. You know? I see nothing but a silent violin in need of breaking. Give me a sign to hide me through the graph: upright. Split and show me a list of the facts stating I’m growing older. Colder. Who do I belong to? Me, or you, or my desires. Woo do I belong to sisters of this world. Set designers.

I’m growing. But I’m tired. At the expense of me. See this life I don’t see. But I move and it breaks and it takes me beyond - to another fantasy. Why am I so happy?

Sitting here in the best of worlds to find my friends, see them guide me: past, present, future self. Tear drops.

Delve deeper. I am not broken. Explore. Cry. I’m crying. Crying like I’ve never done before. Shit. This is hitting me.

I bother. I’m skipping into another line. Tom is beside me. I don’t know him. It doesn’t matter. Let him walk me. Let him maintain my sanity. Breathe. Guide. Be part of that me. I see. Me. I feel. Me I touch. Touch. Sexually. Listen. The crickets. 

But listen because I will surely find these faces I call family. When I know I am with others. I with them I feel able to live rested. Tucked in. Becoming. Alive. Alive. I breathe.

Yes, I’m able to say that. As I sip the line.

But again it’s burning. Turning. TO the light. Nothing will happen. Because I have friends to carry me forward. To soothe me into tranquility. To see me on this way, this path, this life I’ve chosen for me and none other.

See? You can’t box me. I live in multiple layers. Like a vagina. Live a cave. Like the roof of my mouth I scream. The valve breaks. He’s at my bedside. I place a ribbon on him. My brother, my sister, my gay uncle. I want to be a father, so I can hide this scream staring. Looking deep into me. Fuck it.

I’m happy. And they’ll be with me when things go wrong. That’s stolen. A song lyric. You know it? Forget it. Be happy. Happy. My happy. Be me. My lens.

I’ve written too much. Now I feel sleepy. There’s the wind and the hand and my senses seem wrong. Broken. Disoriented. I discuss. I live. I see. I die. I hold. I turn. I kiss. Dearly. Bathing. Me. I kill. I stand. There. Watching. CV. TV. Too much to consider. 

So he goes. Leaving me to my life. Now I’m truly free. Not merely. Truly. He’s quiet. He’s out. He knows that he’s gone. But this song. This song. Wants me? But truth me wrong. Truth be mind. Truth be free. I see some angels coming. What has gotten into me?

Tigers. Masters. Write. There I hide. There I kiss. There I fight. These minds. Think alike. These tears on the paper, test the paper. The people know. Because I poke holes at a world that used to be. For a want of kindness I wish I stood tall. For anger breaks the heavens and land descends upon these footfalls. Never the other way around. Never but a way forward. Through the darkness? Go below. Journey to the sounds. Get scars. 

Yes, I know I am better. Soul, cloud. TV pile. Why don’t these strangers go? Strangers us. Strangers stay. Strangers these lungs breaking up my senses. Too many frequencies. Too many sounds. For a single string. What’s this book. But a pocketful of buttons. Planktons. Do I make sense? As I vanish into the sea? Am I still a refugee? Because I don’t know anyone. But I’m happy, how could I be lost. Am I lost? Too many questions. It doesn’t make sense. But when has reality ever made. Sense. I chuckle. It’s for the better. Break. Breaking. Waves. Frequencies. Noise. Chatter. Bones. Laughter. See? Splatter.

Dresses please don’t come. I’m done with your bruising. Your burying my way out. I know I am able to see. Myself. Leave. I come. Give that older. I come. Closer. High so high. My thigh hurts.Getting closer. Sand at my feet. Walk deeper. Listen to me sing. 

Have I said too much? Or you understand? Doesn’t make a difference. Do you understand? Trouble times are these. And I’m lost, and I’m worried, and I’m giddy, guilty me. These angels sit behind me. Back here motherfuckers scream no. Scream. No. Gibberish. Line stuck in a torn hole. No euphemism. That’s the way it is. This page has torn. Fourth wall, no breaking. Fifth wall. Drinking. Taking. Life. Forms. TIme. Dies. Slowly. Away. Strips my eyes. Miwords, all I can say is I’m fine.

Because these layers. I don’t see you. I don’t fucking know you. So I stand. Tough is my skin. As it stretches deeper into this bullshit digging me a hole. Where I sing until I die. Over sand if there was ever sucha thing. Over right. Guess there was such a thing. Not as thick, but as able. I’m all-right. We had tonight. Fuck listen to this. This replay I played. This life I made. It is here, who I am, where I stay.

Don’t write. Don’t find. Myself. Able.SO many sprints. Spins. Kissing me. Teardrops for a Norwegian. No rights, my angels, empty guy responses: until next time. So as you drown I will kiss you and be part of you, and release your hand when you take your mind out of the water, bake your foot on mine. Bathe it. As it parts you. Because it will. Part you. Tear you. A part. of something bigger. Fishes. Sharks. Mountains underwater. Volcanoes in eruption. I see a burning figure. I forget it’s name, it’s coat of arms. I forget. I keep walking. Past these layers of motherhood. Fatherhood. Parent hood. Pattern hood. And light. SO much light it will make the world blind. SO suffocate and join me. Suffocate and scream. But I will listen. That, again and again I have promised you. That, again and again, and again, and again, I will say I enjoy these rhythms that we play. Senseless joking. 

Turn the page.

Worlds. Kissing in song. Songs of fictions. Eastern choruses. I am a squirrel. Nah. Nah. pH value is too high. High, again I’ll keep talking, but the world awaits, and my soul needs a bt more passion, color, to continue. Pounding. Deeper. Harder. Stronger. Louder. See? Hear? I rumble. These words, flow out of my mind, land on this page, and scatter. In ink. I press a reset. In the dark, I find my way. Because although the journey was messy, although deciphering will be hard, the complexity of the human form is clearer. And easier. Because it’s simple. 

Ladies and gentleman., life is simple. Even if I have yet. If I have still. To learn. That. Life. Is. Simple. Nah, it’s not. Embrace complexity. I live in a world of contradictions.

Do I have your attention. Probably not? So spear me and be done with it. Spear me into self-sacrifice. I need it. And you need it. And we need it. Catharsis. Such a useful word if you don’t know it. once you do, you corrupt it. You kill its authenticity, it’s healing power. You strip it out of this shield of armor. Out of its sense. Because in your reference. To the name. His name. Lord Voldemort. You battle him rather than welcome him. You heighten him for literary papers, for superficial nonsense. For empty words. As I have done. A refugee seeking catharsis but finding none once he realizes he’s flying high enough that the ink of his pen misses precision. But maybe that’s the magic. Because in the aura of the Northern Lights, in the ships of decades - times - past. There’s something. Lying. Buried. Underneath. Do you read.

Because I can’t stop writing. So stop before I stop. Stop. Now. Do it before I finish. A curse. The curse if you keep reading. Luck will have you. Commit you to stop. So stop. Because I already did. We reach the period.

Pablo Guarneros