day three hundred and forty four

the texts are escaping,
tautologies of meanings, disseminated, dissipated, precipitation that can be acidic or just bitter...bittersweet.
Texts of words, or gossips that fishmongers love. Or of love that saves fishermen.
lying at the bottom of the sea, or floating in the air
to hear.
words, sent, cannot return, saved in the inboxes of interpretation.
And yet, they have
meaning. Too much meaning. Safe in the knowledge that they can be read, understood and spread.
done, spellchecking.
We hear what we want to hear. And we speak what we want to speak; But.

done with the words. More words.
You have the impression of me as:
1. full of shit
2. backslider
3. flirt
4. selfish
5. weird
6. in my own world
7.

You're right. I am all those.
There is meaning in the words.

For we are all gods. Gods we fashioned ourselves into. Gods with a forsaken divinity.
We are made into gods. and gods we struggle to transmogrify - trans-mortify in our foreign bodies.

We, are just fellow gods, groping in the dark for our places - in altars, statues, monuments; passages.

Beneath the surfaces of our appearances,
we are just extremely silent. As faceless as God.


After blanks without words to fill,
we stare at our inability to express, our loneliness to ourselves.
i am lonely because I am.

I shall continue to be silent, as my little resistance to the many words we write and speak.
It is my ultimatum in which the fireworks will come as an aftermath of
-- my vendetta with I who killed me.