The World; the world; the word

Do you know that faint feeling of being pulled by an accelerating vehicle? It's a warm tug, an inward sensation of being held to one direction. I remember clearly such a moment, endlessly falling into a pleasant curve, dragged by benign forces of getting from A to B into the distance. Closing eyes, I feel delicate sunlight on my shoulder, head resting, pressed against a murky window. It's plastic, my forehead slowly sinking into the semi-liquid material. Opening eyes, I can see brown dirt, grey building, blue sky, needless activity. Sighing inwardly, I slowly turn my head to the other side. In between my eyes, an ocean of light swims softly. Yes the susurration says yes you can give in you can let go you can end you can be still.

So, I am still. Around me, ashes of a garden swirl in a zeroing in whirlpool, circumventing the epicenter which is I. The story has grown thin, dear reader. The Demented World lies before us, decelerating in the void which it has always occupied. My fingers are heavy from typing, my tongue is weary from talking to myself, my words are laden from creating. And you too, I see into your heart and I find heaviness there. But, before I fully sleep, before all realizations are tucked in to the comfort of the bed of our convictions, I find the need to regale you one last time, or twice, or thrice. We'll see.

Do you know that faint feeling of everywhere? When you have shown yourself door, thoroughly assisted yourself in exiting silently off centre stage? It's a silent hand on the shoulder, your own, reaching around your inhibitions and showing yourself the lane to everywhere. Yes, I remember a day when I was bathed in green and eaten by white, gazing blindly at a sky that blinked and blinked and blinked in front of me. The door was shown, the key was turned and, falling away from the grass and the slope, I found myself everywhere. Yes, there was a hug there and a faint kiss on one cheek. And then the other.

Why then do I still sit in this garden? All that remains here are ashes but they speak to me. Whispering, on the edges of my hearing, the ashes tell me all that I have told you. Do you see? Do you see? I am not the storyteller here at all. I am only a messenger of ashes, only a herald of tiny storms, only a preacher of forsaken poems. I am sorry, dear reader. So sorry. I have mislead you. None of this is about me. None of this was felt by me. None of this was experienced by me. It was all The Demented World. And I am no longer it. I am no longer the World, the world, the word. Set ablaze, what I maybe, maybe, was is not me anymore. And so, while recreated in a crucible of pain, I am still a liar.

Do you know the feeling of letting go? Neither do I. This is what I must unlearn: to hold to pay to own to seek to tread to weave. I will engrave this on my heart that even now flutters. Forget to hold, to keep for yourself. Forget to pay, to divide and breathe. Forget to own, to fight and achieve. Forget to seek, to dream and speak. Forget to tread, to pace and heave. Forget to weave. Forget to weave. Faintly, I remember this moment. In the future, some I is looking back and remembering this, the window, the darkness, the vibrations, the room, the hands, the hair, the eyes, now closed, the throat, the silent breath, the letting go of breath, the realization. The moment when the weave was set, when the weave was ended, when the weave was created. And he is not me and I will be him. I will be him, I will be I.

I am no longer the World, the world, the word. Dear reader, read me as you have: I am no longer the word, the world, the World.

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