god be_everyone_you_are
fyn gula he wondered as he usually did by what identity he could give the current state of affairs, the constituency he presently found himself in, something he could paint, cut and paste, glue down permanently. as if after this period of day to day existence he still had not completely discovered the inner knowledge that kept appearing like some pencil rubbing he did as a child.

he possessed much of what he needed to calm the storms, to stand out in the strong winds, under the lightening flashes and not get struck. much of that coming in adolescence, beside the streams or the driftwood fires, at the stick huts he constructed in the lonely woods, laying under the sun listening to the hum of busy bees, waiting for fantasy and reality to merge.

yet the parts he still layed in bed thinking about or watching the world spin and he the other way...these are the things that puzzled him, that irritated him like interrupted dreams.

he realized his soul was made up of several entities, individual segments that fit together, a child's puzzle that brings the squeal of completion.

but what bothered him the most was the ones he loved most were the least understood, not by him for he found the greatest wonder in the continuing revelation, but by those closest to him.
they shake their heads in delusion, they click their tongues in ignorance, they roll their eyes with disdain.

and he thought he could let this apathy, this rejection, this neglect roll off his back like rain falling on the feathers of a white swan, but he could not. he was pierced. st. sebastian on the cross. many sharp arrows hitting tender places, drawing blood from wounds he knew would never heal because time is a jealous thief who deceives us into taking paths we should not be walking on, even though the way is beautiful. if we were to just look closely, we would see the monster behind the shrubbery, the fungus under the bark, the snake hidden in the grass, the spider crawling noiselessly.

so he stopped here in this place at this time and he simply screamed with all the strength he had inside. he vomited forth the primal gunk accumulated over the years of deceiving himself. all the lies, all the deception, all the wasted days of being something he wasn't.

he cried out, "be everyone you are!" and the birds scattered.

be the child in your mother's womb.
the boy on the swing.
the youth alone in the forest.
the fictional character trapped between worlds.
the man in love with the world.

when all had returned to peace and the birds settled once more on the branches of trees with young leaves, he wept until he could taste the salt in his trembling mouth. 010525
szgow the hammer of squillo? 010527
screwing for virginity oh, ill hammer your squillo. 021125
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