Reborn

         The fire began to die. Consumption had run its course and now the room swelled in soft unknowns, permitting nothing beyond memory. Reality folds beneath such darkness and escapes certainty becoming in essence, one in the same with imagination. The vacancy which existed presented an interesting dichotomy born of both possibility and its wasted self, the diminished realm of absence known as impossibility. Being directionless, yet bound by something seemed an awful existence. In fact, it was the sum and total that now surrounded without effort or care, it was blackness without color, shade, shape, or substance. It was a void unfilled, a gap awaiting something, anything. Seemingly the true state of nature, that force in opposition to disturbance. It was patience and knowing. Insured against denial it loomed in confidence and demonstrated no profound need to rebel, but rather it flowed assuredly as a canvas which bares all things, judgment withheld it offered neither admonishment nor approval, but dwelled in a place of real certainty.

         The misfortunate ones who leant their thoughts to such things could, once venturing into the murky depths of reason, no longer return unscathed should they return at all. A portion of such enlightenment oddly enough was forever lodged far away inside the inner most places of one’s ideas. It breathed with each breath and pulsed in every slow beat of the human heart. There was no light which could dispel its presence, no demise by which it could be felled. This unremitting truth was the foolish task of all humans, whether they engaged it knowingly or strode hard against its unending tides: to labor in vein, to burn.

         It was in this veiled state of conscious examination that __________ found himself when the fire had vanished. But had it? Perhaps it had transformed? Increasingly he began to imagine a new source of light. A spark of genius granted to him by that fury of nature. He had found something smoldering away, but now it lay within his mind, inside his consciousness. He was an observer yet the discovery was internal. He had no prior sentiment or investigative inquiry, yet the totality of this radiant thought was astounding. Clarity which pierced even the pitch blackness of his cabin singed ravenously away at reason and burnt unfathomably deep into his constructed world. It mocked his truths and fed upon his beliefs, chewing each slender string of sinuous expectation and hope. He was changing as though he had never existed. There was no somber echo of time’s wrenching hands to remind him of past or present. He was reborn.


















Lie to me
Just make it up like I’d want to be
Probably
Undeniably passing on originality
Sadder shades
Light up the contours anyway
Had enough
I don’t really know the shape of anything

I don’t really know
No I don’t really know
I don’t really know
No I don’t really know
I don’t really know
No I don’t really know
I don’t really know
No I don’t really know

Shedding souls
Sold too much to let it go
Probably
Outlined conscientious symmetry
Gladder gaze
Doesn’t really see me anyway
Had enough
I don’t really know the shape of anything

I don’t really know
No I don’t really know
I don’t really know
No I don’t really know
I don’t really know
No I don’t really know
I don’t really know
No I don’t really know