_tessellation_ mosa part two/tessellation it was where no one cared to look that day they found him lying next to feathers and bones, sand imprinted on his face, as if he had been there for several days. they said he was alive, but how, many others questioned, doubting if he had any life left in him, any breath to ever carry on a conversation, any energy to ever do what he used to do, be the person they perceived him to be, the object of their judgement. they looked at him, shaking their heads, knowing he had potential, satisfied they were not the fool he was, and then went on with their thoughts, their alarm-woken days, continuing on with issues, that had no more importance than if the tide washed his body away where another crowd would find him and mutter similar self-aggrandizing gibberish. a few people tried lifting him, figuring it was what they should do when finding a body washed upon the shore, but he was swollen heavy with absorbed water. they dropped his dead body and covered their mouths and noses at the stench. they looked at him. the further away they got the more he looked like a fish. why did he kill himself they asked each other and they knew nothing about him. 140418 ... mosa who was he? where did he come from? why did he do it? when did he do it? how? what the fuck? many wondered about the secrets, but not for long, just a momentary puzzling inclination they chatted over coffee and biscotti until the more pressing and important concerns, they would forget moments later, took their distracted attention away. no one bothered to move his body so the sea disposed of him as crisp and evenly as it can be seen on a documentary made of the subject. fish nibbled at his body. crabs snipped away at his prune-like flesh. scavenging gulls pecked at him until he was a skeleton of himself. 140419 ... mosa people that knew him, had witnessed his life, and were able to give a brief description to others of the effect he had upon their lives, showed up to look at his bones. seaweed had tangled up around his ribcage. sand collected in the hollow sockets of his skull. they examined themselves, using his tragic story as a magnifying glass gazing so intently that the sun could burn a ring in the beach grass. they wanted to assure themselves they were not amorphous, that they indeed possessed shape and form. that when others beheld them they saw integrity and were inspired. they spoke of suicide like a disease and speculated about what caused it in him. poison words that polluted the air and stung the heart. empty criticism that stood like the sand castles their children made around their feet, only to be washed away to nothing as the tide rolled in. 140420 ... mosa his spirit floated like a ghost of himself in the salty air and attempted to communicate with them. they were able to sense his presence and said, " i heard him. he spoke to me." but later, they shook it off, saying,"it wasn't him. it was just me talking to myself." what he said appeared as words in the sand only to be washed away before they were read. "you are not one. you are made up of several different souls; young, mature, and old. they dwell in the worlds inside you. they continuously struggle to enter your reality, to make theirs the chosen land, the country of prominence. the survivor is the strong one. the one who learns and understands is the student and the teacher. the one who creates something from nothing is the artist. the one who plays games is the child. the drop falls, the circle forms and ever widens. spinning, colliding, connecting, on and on...but who is the one who loves?" 140421 ... mosa when his friends heard this question, they stopped in the stiff breeze, as if they were holding a seashell up to their ear and listened. when they could not reach past the hoard of their narcissism and failed to answer the simplest of questions, they asked each other what it was they heard and all agreed it was only the sound of the sea. when they had frustrated themselves with the inability to know who they were, they decided to visit his home in hopes of finding a clue or to see if he left a suicide note. 140422 ... mosa when they had searched his belongings there was only one possession in the empty house of dead branches and stone. it was an elaborate and colorfully painted treasure box sitting like an egg in a nest. they examined it, turning it over in their hands. they marveled at its construction and design. when they creaked open the lid, they were baffled to find it smelling of earth, but empty. "how can this be?" they asked, scratching their heads, as if they mistakenly understood him to be someone who possessed great treasure. as if by asking this with brain, breath, voice box, tongue, teeth, and lips, they contained the necessary elements he was without. that by the beating of their hearts under warm clothes, skin, muscle, bones, tissue and cells, they still held on to what he now had lost. 140423 ... mosa they greedily took the box from his home in all of its emptiness and made cheap replicas of it and sold them for extravagant amounts to others like themselves who wanted something beautiful and thought provoking without spending their whole life creating it. for it wasn't until he was dead that worth and value was placed on the memory of his life. when he was a ghost, he beheld this transfer of desire and money, wondering why he could not be dead when he was alive. he spoke it in words that they mistook to be their own thoughts. "i was never tall enough to reach what was beyond my grasp, not strong enough to lift heaviness, never smart enough to know certain words...i never experienced enough to perform exceptionally. i was not the son my mother told friends about. i wore myself out with pity...i became invisible, one who is mocked and bullied. if only i could have realized that in the one second it took to die, i could have lived." when they heard this, it was a whisper so silent they mistook it for their own voice and they didn't question it because they could hear themselves saying the same words, for it was what they said when no one was listening. 140424 ... mosa they were the ones who bought the boxes and inside they placed nothing and it was everything they possessed. he watched them open their boxes in the quiet contemplation of the day's end before they fell asleep to the revolving nightmare and beheld their eyelids flutter, lips quiver, chins tremble, shoulders rock and fingers shake with prayer-like gasps of soul incrimination. "we are empty," they sang with choking utterance. "our voice is a shout but only sharply drawn breath leaks out. we are lost. no one looks." we are empty," they sang with choking utterance. "our voice is a shout but only sharply drawn breath leaks out. we are lost. no one looks. we slip and fall into it. we are beginning to drown. we are strangers speaking an untranslatable language. who will stop to save us?" they fell asleep exhausted, waking every half hour to confusing dreams that attempted to use impossible fiction to recreate the past. 140425 ... mosa they dreamt about him and interpretation revealed him to be generous in spirit, giving everything to them in recognition of their own gifts. when they woke and were ready to begin living again, he hovered about them like a bee, watching them exist, going to their individual place. whether it was crossing a bridge or passing through crowds, he beheld flashing lights coming from their calculated steps and he knew why. each person carried a mirror. every three steps they stopped to look at themselves and gazed with guarded anxiety at their own futures. it didn't look good unless they were willing to let evolution shake them, reshape them, turn them inside out, and push them off a cliff. "now fly!" 140426 ... mosa hey walked on smashing their mirrors giving them spider web veins and distorted visions. but those who stepped backwards erased their past. they retreated faster and faster, nearly tumbling head over heels. those with jagged pieces held them in bloodied hands over their heads, chasing in hot pursuit those who were withdrawing from experience, threatening to slash them, injure them, stop them, yelling, "be like us!" many reached out for recognition. those who became prey stumbled and fell, breaking their own mirrors. yet it was not glass, but laughter. 140427 ... mosa he watched this in his silent observation and he knew it to be a mystery. he had seen it many times when he was alive and he convinced himself if he was ever privileged to possess a new life, he would never look into a mirror. because to be laughed at is to realize your own folly and all mistakes add up to separation. loneliness=the inability to give yourself. "i can't love!" he shouted, banging against the invisible layer between the real and unreal. "i can't laugh at myself. i can't live again... unless..." "unless? you mean there is hope?" a seagull asked. the same one who discovered him laying face down on the wet sand. "hardly," a fish said, floating belly up. "there's no use continuing until there is a reason to live." "but i heard him. he wants to live again. he can live. he needs to learn he is part of everything." "look, he's stepping, wait, what's he doing?" "he's tearing a hole in the sky!" "he's going inside! "he's gone!" yes. he disappeared and went where everyone would go. he was absent, vanished like snow when the winter earth sighs unusually warm breath for the passage of time it takes one to easily forget. 140428 ... mosa __tessellation__ 140429 what's it to you? who go blather from