We all need space. We move through it. We find ways to fill it up, to take it away, to make it known. We are full of space. Between our fingers and teeth. Between our eyes and deeper within. We are from the world of the infinite. The world beyond dreams and illusions. We pulse, we prophetize, we procrastinate. Meeting the divine isn't easy in the real world. We get glimmers and impressions, but the full scope of it is elusive.
I live in a world of dreams. As the great illusionist I like to play tricks. Now you see me, now you don't. Now you feel me, now you won't. I like to hover. I keep my real parts afloat slightly above my body, far enough to be out of reach and out of context. I wake up asleep. I choose to drown my senses in smoke and haze because I hate hardness. I hate rages and fires and filth. I hate the tar pits of the world because you can't just wade through them. You have to pass by and you have to sink and you have to work your way out with more than just charm, wit, and the gift of appeal.
I've begun sinking. The dream world grows heavy and flashes. There is this drumming and crack. This rolling becomes my thunder, and bangs loudly in the din. My heart always so close to forgetting the rest of me. My heart always so close to love. It beats deeply hoping to cover all my senses in blood and fire. The rage of the heart is poetic and proud. It works unsteadily in me. I am just a few degrees cooler than normal, so I can brush off the tremors and keep my sights from unwinding. There is always something else between us. Us being the eternal object of my affections. A face that changes, a body that fuses differently, a man today, a man for now, a man for the moment.
There comes that moment where we aren't men anymore. We are lines to be drawn. We are silence unspoken. We are apart together and we wear our lies like kisses. We make deep impressions, we fill our voids with ourselves. We can be so many things and yet any moment we can burn down to nothing. The heart shakes it's walls and thumps out it's declarations of blood and fire. It says that this is everything. That this has to mean everything. I find my coolness even in the lover's volcano. I can feel the heat and find comfort. I don't burn. I don't rage. I can't make an everything out of a man.
I know it's me. The underlying secret of it all is me. I lose my ideals early. I feel the empty space that can't be touched. That no man or moment has had the length of arm or emotion to embrace. This vacant space has turned on it's neon sign, but no one is allowed inside. I know it's me. I rest my loving self in the comfort of ideas and the ideas of happiness with another. I pull the curtain back. My vision sharp and reptilian. The snake in me clings to the dragon. The dragon divine gives me glimmers and sensations and visions of the infinite space within and without. It's remote yes, but it's boundless.
A lick of the dragon's tail fills me with dreams and movement. It strikes that perfect pitch beyond and beneath me all at once. It's a silent push toward. It also is the truth about me. The kiss of a moment, on lips inviting and real fills me with dreams yes, and dread. I can curl up and lick and taste the future of an us and a we and a together. I can plan. I can calculate. I can want so much that my good parts just flood out like a fountain. Like a gift. Like a mistake.
If I give and love and create an available personage what will it be worth? A surplus of kisses to mask the distance? An open heart to within the visions of betrayals unseen ? I know it's me. I tend to race. I give up as much as I give out. Perhaps I know the truth about men. Perhaps I know how to catalog a moment honestly. Perhaps I'm all wrong in all ways. My dream world hangs heavy. It's weighed down now when it used to float above. There is no smoke. There is no fire. There is the coolness of myself. My skin sparkles with salt and hard on my chest is the weight of the dragon. The truth about me strikes out like a map. The topography of mistakes I make gets colored at the edge. This territory of endings and beginnings and never endings continues to create itself.
This sadness is living. It is the washing out of all that was and all that will never be. I am the great magician. I alchemize my tears and blood and instability into a future. A future alone or with a man. A future that tastes of dreams and becoming. The dream world falls like tears and rain and sinks itself into view. It is all I can see. It is the truth about me. It is all I can see. This coolness, this need, this magic is me. It is my truth on fire.