Series Of Echoes
Last night, a messenger came to me, grabbed me by my hair and said “Doug, let’s go”.
It might as well be morning right now. The birds are singing their melodies of morning. They’re mourning for me. I tell them not to cry for me. But they do. I am pure. My pain is their pain. I gaze to the South.
The ghost was sad and sang out of key like me.
Home has evolved once again. I’ve learned to accept home is relative. It’s nothing more than an idea. I am beautiful, therefore I will always be ok.
Illusions of your smile dissipate. This is goodbye, or at least until that day.
The circle will be unbroken. Everything will continue to turn. There is beauty in hell.
I look to the north again. The clouds are communing for another dance. The trees watch me sympathetically. I don’t need their sympathy. I’m best when I’m melancholy. With happiness comes creative sterility, and I need to remain vital.
I make eye contact with a robin. There is no fooling the birds. They’re not your despicable family after all. They see the real you, not the you they need to see to make them feel better about themselves. We share a moment. I smile at it as though we were opponents in chess and I just removed its queen from the board.
There is something to be said for this life. Life and all it’s delusions are fucking beautiful. Life resonates.