| Sensory overload. The system is overwhelmed again. Everyone swells, the fever peaks. We all check out and withdraw for the eve. I listen to the whispers of white snakes wrap around me tight. For two nights, I toss and turn, my face flushed with the flames of past lives regret. But I am the Architect, I have no regret. I walk in a straight line; a sway to the hip, a curve to the lip. In this season, self-reflection is due... and we all wonder if in this strife we are evolving or destructing. Here we head blindly to our unknown demise. It seems as if we are all waiting for permission to die. Taking solace in the grace and rapture of another. We either cling to it, or recoil back into isolation. Both are tight and resemble the womb. Alone, yet connected. The umbilical cord of life like a noose wrapped around our necks. We bring children into this world, yet are unable to care for them. We chase after lovers who hide the better half of their faces from us. We weep in the embrace of stone, wishing desperately for the sculpture of our desire to find pulse and breathe life back into us. What is all this suffering meant for? The cure for obsession is ultimate surrender. Here, repressed trauma seeps through the cracks. The little boy I look after has gone mute. His fever has either repressed his fear, or he's faced it and moved on. He no longer cries out for his mother or me, he lays there with glossy waking eyes that no longer waver in search of his mother's shadow. It has been a strange week, and I want to cry not knowing why. I feel too isolated, my emotions are sealed beneath the iced bricks of my grand design. I am the architect, and so I must continue to walk. Walk on, walk forward. Bated, but with no regret. |
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