There’s a settle amongst the grey, a forgotten down of sleep and a weight of spun thought, wherein I cover my eyes with secreted hands, losing all direction in a reeling freedom. What mars flesh in the syncopated breaths of a treacherous commute, within and without unaccompanied hours, is the very source of reward in the wisps of dream that escape the flue of desire.

I often wonder if we were to make reality of our words, if we were to give them permission for growth, taking place amongst man, amorphous and fitting well in, would intention be mistaken for chaos, gratitude for direction lost, would we absentmindedly proffer kindness, and in doing so, stumble upon love?

Why should it all be a myth, an enlightened society, a dreamlike state of consciousness…why can’t we heal our souls and steal into another’s with a simple touch of humanity. Why can’t we?

Why must hate and an unreasonable need to be right, a loud sonic clash of intolerance and refusal of growth stand in the way of pure existence, unadulterated rawness…the greatest warriors I’ve known were compassionate, independent thinkers who outwardly looked to be designed by Anger itself…who proffered me a path of safety and never revealed where my mortal flesh peered from my armor, who had patience enough to wait for me to reveal in my own time…

I’m still safest in my dreams, I dare say, even my nightmares…accepting, willing, expecting…I’m most alive in my words…immortal, inexplicable, feral…the more ink I wear in my flesh, the more I welcome the sun to touch my existence…

E. A. O'Connell. June 10, 2021.