Just when the idylllic life becomes near enough to touch, it evanesces and whispers from behind you into your ear as the eternally free zephyr does to the living jailer of itself, a tree. It soughs but sounds like a hammer blow and terminates in my own sigh that sweeps my thigh.

It is the incarcerated who is the best at running for he runs from running itself. Ran runs ahead of running and stretches the prisoner thin. To be on the run is to slither in the shifting sands and shed your skin to make sin your kin.

Breathe in the breeze that flees to trap freedom in your ribcage. Lunge into the punch that seeks to steal it --escape within its reach-- but the whale is beached.

He who lifts the myth finds a thief beneath it a better grifter than he is.

Infinity is a blind alley.

* * *




Is this prose or poetry or just some flotsam in my head? Been through what I would call a lot, having to do what all males in my country has to do. No matter what I do the conclusion is the same. Both in terms of being unable to escape this ordeal, and also finding this very same dead end in my other pursuits.

Why do I still wait in my puddle of stillness?
Why do i convolute the complicated?
I kNow No one will come. The pivottal moment in life comes only when one realises no one will come.


Fuck.