Coarse brick, painted over for a quick fix, but rust bleeds through the porous and forced adhesion, bound to crumble and be forgotten, touched for a moment and remembered for a life as the finger and thumb grind against grooves of original prints; the mind relaxes and all collapses without fear, without the sentimental grasp of memory or time.
Ask to be remembered and you shall, remembered as a jackal or jackass, a scornful beast or a lustful dud, a dude, crude, finding a rhyme for whatever it takes, committing a crime, raising the stakes, to matter. A lump of matter can't be forced to matter, it just is. Bouncing around, creating noises, gaining attention later unwanted, and judgement unneeded. With the right tone or clamor you could "make it", and good luck defining what it is you have made, because eventually, what matters, won't anymore.
Stop writing and read, stop talking and listen, stop fearing and bleed, stop listening and lead. Exist, feel pain, find comfort, let someone or something sooth you, because your anger and your whiskey won't release the tension of brick walls, cement mixed with sinew and grit. The cracks and pulls can take a break, the breaks and scars have built high enough, let them fall.
There is no point, no reason, no message meant to be combed through, and there doesn't always need to be, just let it be, just let it be. Breath, stretch, touch your surroundings, be present, just feel. It isn't always for entertainment, and there doesn't always need to be a point, there are enough points and words cluttering the air, so take it in, and let it do what it was meant to. It happens with or without explanation, or coaxing, or any of the other desperate attempts to let it be known. Breathe, the action itself is greater than the imperfect words you shuffle through to describe it. "But if I don't do it people won't see". You can lead the blind across a road no and again, but you can't restore their vision, hold their hand, take a few steps and walk away, especially when they aren't blind, but refuse to open their eyes.
Too much time wasted, looking at the screen, "what does it mean?" Someone will see, someone will say it was a waste of time, someone will be pleased, and someone else will try to figure out the writer while skipping over the words, good for them, it doesn't matter, it isn't even matter, just a blip, some imaginary way to showcase imagination, a .com version of paper that will fade even quicker.
