Quantum Entanglement

Maybe I found my match. But one I was never supposed to meet

Maybe I found my Other, but was never supposed to cohabitat with someone of equally drastic cognitive proportions. Maybe one brain of terrifying lucidness is already too much. That two was always, and always would be, too much to bear — for the both of us.

Maybe I do need an escape, in order to live.

Maybe I do need to leave, in order to stay.

You don’t know what I mean. Ironically—and yes romantically but not of the positive kind—She knows what I mean. But, this is about needing to settle into a vast plain, not living atop a unitary summit — gasping for air. Elevation, after all, ultimately leaves you breathless.

I need to start living among the vast plain —

so, here’s what I mean.

What I mean is about leaving the true of my heart and the reality of my words in order to bare — living.

I mean fleeing from my own nature cause it was never livable all along.

Finding a home upon the path away from my true self. Freeing myself from decay by thrusting myself gayly into the necessary hallows of superficial life.

You will also understand this one, and it’s not just because it’s physical

Sometimes momentum can go the wrong way

Entropy can work against you

Can you lead you off a cliff when you thought you were just getting to see the view

Can you lead you over a threshold past which things go bad. Go very bad. Bad enough to curse my hands today, typing this away — from a bed that I cannot afford to see as only temporary rest (sleep will always be adjacent to a ‘finality of peace’ I don’t want to, but will always hear when my mind becomes still — or not still enough).

There is this point, a point most humans never reach, ever less foresee, and too near-sighted to observe: an inflection point I’ve been fastened to for long enough to seek the calmness of the slope.

‘We were never meant to survive on the other end of the u-curve.’

So today I sit here and understand that to survive, I must run away from myself, which is running away from you. And logic and reason has no bearing on what I choose — because survival is not a matter of truth — it’s a rejection of righteousness, and a turn-away from You. It’s a direction of finalness — and the only way through. But perhaps..

Perhaps the ‘only way out is not through’

Perhaps one gallant step backwards is better than ten more forward — into an ever-constricting path, spiraling all the way, ‘at least I am somewhere, today’

No.

‘somewhere’ is not where I want to be

I want to be where the sun culls my skin

Where the sky meets the wind

I want to sit at Santa Monica beach or some other ostensibly nondescript beach and stare down the asymptotal horizon and see a forever — not a closing.

I want to watch a sunset and see a new beginning, not an end of myself hoping

I want to sit atop a summit and feel like I’m laying in a valley

To walk on a one path and feel like it’s a canyon

But maybe.

Maybe Art is an expression of truth, yes

But only along the narrow scope of a rifle

Maybe Art has to be fluid and forceful,

Infallible like a bible if it had no disciple

It has to speak with a defining period —

It has to tell you what is and what isn’t without real room to think

It has to come to conclusions

Maybe after all this pointed poetic commandment

It’s still no less an abstraction —

of truth

Instead is a — reaction

of abuse

A need to be dogmatic for the sake of ‘knowing’ truth

Maybe it’s better if I speak in plain English..

Poetry exaggerates.

It takes the slight murmur of a phenomenon, of a narrative, and it shoots its arrow latching on to multiply it like a cancer, then parading it through ostentatious streets of artistic-intellectual indulgence

It allows innocence to masquerade behind lines that speak like this, that—

Poetry tells a story

A story you can’t find

It’s hidden in the water

On the underside of time

If it sounds complex and rhymes

It must be true, two times

Once in your heart

And then again in your head

But I think too much, to not do the opposite instead

But now it’s calling again

A canvas of imaginary scenery

A script that said—

My mother always told me — you never remember what people said

You just remember how they made you feel

But I remember what you said

And how you made me feel

‘Are you talking to explain, or to persuade’

That made me feel naked and heard

But I’ve lived enough time with clothes for nakedness to no longer feel calming

I’ve lived long enough to start asking questions

Do you love someone for who they are or how they make you feel?

What if you could find both?

What if I already have?

What if I never will

What if the only way to do that is to first be okay yourself

To love yourself because of who you are, not in spite of it — because

When you learn this from two people, you realize the common denominator is Me

What if I could be okay with not having all the answers today — at least,

I could see sleep as only a temporary rest

Not a potential finality of peace

I digress.

The last one was not. But Yes. This one is about you