The nature of light is both wave and particle.
Sometimes I’m not sure what is to be done. (Most times.) The world spins at an alarming rate. Inside palm, in words and eyes and skin and heart. (The core is a holiness you can’t permit.) Attempt to sever before it consumes you. (rot.) There are tiny eggs under your skin, they look like pimples.
The world spins at an alarming rate. (ner.vous.wreck.age.) You are so convinced that it will pass before you can get your chance to shine, to glow, to bask in joy.
It is moving so; precious seconds are spent checking for predator and prey. Hours are spent surfing 1s and 0s of pale bliss and assuming shapes of doom. Months are spent charting the growth of hair in odd crevices and savoring musk. Years are for counting down to the big black when we measure the weight of growth & pray to reap love. (The same love that has birthed us a galaxy of words. The love between your breath and mine.) Decades are for counting silver strand on skull like rare wheat. Your life is what you say it will be and one root of your being is hope.
The internet is a nervous system. Become a neuron of something pure. Truth has a billion shapes and you may hold it in your blood till last breath.
Sometimes, I’m not sure what is to be done. (But I know.) The world spins too fast to do what you know you could. Spins so fast you can’t hold what’s in your hands, or your head. Cranium is splitting open, lined with the flesh of strange petals, soon to bloom, to catch light and soar.
Hope is a verb.
Active resonance with that full sense of unlimited goodness ahead. (little vibrating stomach storm.) Do it. Let your entire soul do this. Let every pulse and breath shift through what you know about everything happening and do it. Ground it here now. Hope is like a machine, once you turn the key…don’t… you can’t switch it off because you get bored, or tired of how things are physically worse everyday and nothing is changing. Right now as you read, hope swims inside streams of your body too fine to catch. It is a pulsing jelly of light in a cap strewn with a hundred white eyes.
Nigeria was never meant to be, though, she is. Her seams are ripped and overflowing with blood, war, thirst, hunger, fear, disbelief. Somehow the peculiarity behind her creation, the forced unity of such disparate elements, means that she is a fertile birthplace for so much glory. Tap into that anger fire. The fact of her suffering and arrested development at the hands of her own, the contamination of her ancient riches by whiteness. It has been 50-something years and still she remains a kneeling bride being milked for power. We should know by now that she was never meant to be. Hope she remains, this cradle of rough diamonds.
2050-FUTURA: (despair.) imagine the human soul becoming external. (nuclear wipeout.) imagine new beings, new species, new emotions. (death of a silly capitalist-dominator civilization.) Imagine technology that is to our current tools what the laptop is to slate and stone. (spirit set free) Imagine your arms around someone you love in a world that is a cocoon and not a jagged matrix. (orgiastic dream, utopian flutter) lyrics to imagine.mp3. (ancient craving for heavenwomb sated.)
Hope a mind that has been snapped into new orbit may never find old orbit again. The world spins at an alarming rate. Teach it to spin at your speed. (softness is a form of hope too.) Tailor time into garments and flow in them. Cut your coat according to your size.
Tend to the wound of, even though we are one, all of us in our maddening beauty, we will never understand each other completely. (what kind of epic loneliness?) Use empathy. You know where it is. When you find it let it be. (can you even act Nigerian film?) Let others hope. There are too many ways, too many people.
Gratitude to the heavens beyond and all of their inhabitants, to Mother and old friend, to sisters and could-be-lovers, to yesterday, to tomorrow.
2017-ZEROTIME: I hope to grow. I hope to reduce the size of my head and to finally find the thing that scares my depression away. (laughing mouth under moon.) I hope to harness my anxiety and not let it eat me anymore. I hope to find new friends. I hope to write new tales. (roaming, healed) I hope to follow the wide burning of suns out in the infinite (what kind of epic loneliness?) I hope to embrace my shade. I hope to step off the precipice. I hope to begin to respect my voice, to begin to know how hallowed words are.
I hope, to be true.
(self-care is a form of hope too.)