2D Realities

I have this memory problem, and it may come from smoking too much weed, but let's say it's the media.

The stone bridge is too long to be structurally sound, empty clouds draw clumps of particles (my body) to either side of the 6-foot wide structure and i'm balanced in between them. I run to get away from this place where I feel more air than ground but I'm stopped by him.

Do I look into your eyes when I talk to you? Am I supposed to? Maybe you'll let me see too much.
A word your friends might use to inaccurately describe you: contemplative

Sure I think about things, about what I'm about to write and how to phrase it for understanding, but not when I'm outside. When I'm outside I think about math and physics, and I watch my shadow.

He's dark and he looks like me and he has a sword like mine which he draws, though mine is still sheathed at my hip. His smile is darker than his form, he takes a step forward.

When I say "the Media" what I mean is me. the music that identifies me differently than that guy who wears my clothes, the words i like to use (symposium) that lets you know which i belongs to what niche.


[ breath with the extra line breaks ]


A chance to stop and reread what is misunderstood, a seldom granted luxury.

There is no sound in a vacuum. I take a step forward to match his, the way it should have been before we were separated. I didn't feel it when he slipped away from me with flat fingers tearing at clay, but i hope he crawled through hell. How dare he leave me alone. My blade comes down on his dark shoulder, cloudy molecules split, explode.

We are talking, but I'm watching myself in a reflection across the room, from a picture frame. Far behind the sailboat picture I'm staring at a closed-circuit of staring. From here I can't see my eyes, but the empty space where they should be. I'm thoughtless, unlistening, knowing the one with my thoughts is hiding behind a sail on a clear day, tossing back and forth on foamy seas. He hears a song, I hear the beat, I drum the beat and now the beat is in my hands on my legs pounding in the bruises and i'm watching the bruises before they exist and before i realize i'm not looking at the ocean wash you realize i'm not focusing on anything but the beat. i could care but i could not, COULD NOT listen to anything but this beat just now.

He doesn't feel it, but I do. My shirt's a bloody mess now, like he stabbed me, but he didn't, i stabbed HIM. He takes the empty moment to stab me for the first time in my second wound and the other shoulder is wet and sticky already. goddammit.

I'd tell you what I wrote when I was in my room with my headphones on understanding more than ever, i'd copy and paste the majesty of interstellar thought transcribed on gold tablets like Joseph Smith from the Angel Moroni, but even I don't understand them now, and why should I relay a message I don't understand? Because I'm waiting for it to be more obscure, is why, and I'll tell you.

We were one once, and now? I'm the one on the ground. He allows me to stand, knowing I'll strike, but I don't. I put my sword away slowly, and watch my mirror image follow. His dark fills my wounds, we are one again. We don't need anyone else.