The best nightmares are the ones with fight, desperate and subdued but augmented by the sense—not fear, but sense—that time is running thin in breaths hurried and shorter and it’s all as if I am and life might not let me out into the light alive, so I stay dark in the mean time under night and corner cover, in shadows, along fringes, lone wolf lurking and secret low laying but moving always moving toward the moment when it’s the moment in and I finally have it, whole, in protecting hand and hand in hand we make our way out

and then what.

Forgive me but I can’t deal with these fucking line breaks anymore, that’s what, these little then whats, thinking of remembering nightmare dreaming of fighting like the thinking fucking thought will get away and never to be found again like decency does so quick and slippery and I’ll wake up in the morning thinking, fuck, what grand delusions we have of freedom, no idea what we’re running away from and mistaking time spent for love given over and spoken but words are never enough and always too much and still we use the same ones the same ones without waking up, fugitive desires laid bare as if bare-laying is alone itself liberation, thinking T said “It is an empty act to reveal everything” and he was right.

Right? Right, and how does that not sound midnight tired, and then what,

words as arbitrary and essential as chemical compounds like us just jaded moleculars of stuck together compound pieces

and how do we not sound at least a little sick, and then what,

the way we stick bonded to bad covalent notions and as if we’re hell-bent out of the box on selective amnesia for the bare-laid moment like “I know who I am” and laying mislaid claim to birthright cynicals as if the label has handles for one size fits all individuals and l-o-v-e and m-e-a-n-i-n-g are just things we pick up and carry around thinking not thinking different, mouths just saying and not speaking different

or maybe that was just me, m-e.

Either way the breaks came back, didn’t they, breaking hypocrite me up with any set sense of then what, and at least I’m being honest and not breaking under the weight of broken record repeats and frustrated what thens, at least being honest and feeling difference is finally feeling different and feeling ok about breaking apart in crumbling fragile fragments falling from the weather and time-beaten exteriors of sort-of-solid self built with time-bound words like they were set in stone but really just repurposed and refabbed with little to no sense of expiration dates, solo-standing in an edified pile down on a dark, shadowed corner of a whole city that might never wake up and in saying that right now I realize I no longer feel like a prefabbed house of fraud cards, just like that, and don’t even remember the last time I did and this time glad for amnesiac selection.

So what, then. Well just like that I remember how James said/sang your nightmares only needed you to unfold and I wondered how it could so surely seem he was singing that just for me, never knowing quite how to write that out but knowing it was out of something that I surely seemed to be and everyone would surely soon surely see and soon see me,

me and all my breaks and near misses, spelled out and word for sky-written word, deluded,

so the story became one half-written like me or m-, about a storyteller out of stories, a lover out of love, a dreamer out of dreams, a something out of everything, a this out of that, just a thing, plain ordinary imperiled thing as exposed, done, and used up as potential but not so much wasted as vacated, indecently done and gone so soon, unfolded before I’d even begun, self-seen desires like whole pieces disclosed and denuded out in plain nightmare open space light so betrayed and spotlight bright, no cunning stealthy matador with death-red cape, no flair, no fight, just fear and flight. These were not the nightmares of my dreams, not these, no, they were the daymares of anxious, frightful nights.

But that was then, and then was spin and what, on my head windmill spinning to broken choppy breakbeats as if I’d be invisible and whole if I spun fast enough but oh how slow I was back then back when the daytime waking hoax was hiding there all the time hidden behind hiding dreams of being seen, spinning homespun hopes around an empty act of emptying out the middle for some extreme, revealed in partial truth and partial denial of the then what-fearing and what then-wanting spaces in between.  

Well, what then has turned to a now when gift and it’s the challenge and the solution, you said, love, and how right, right? How right, and how there’s time yet but fleeting but with time there’s room yet for love handled only by freedom, space yet for me, challenged and solved, growing (back) up again from pavement cracks to turn into something new, contradicted and all mixed up and unresolved and straightened out and new, challenging and solving and knowing that in the best nightmares lives something that needs something and to me that means it means something and the ongoing evergoing getting to it is the challenge and the solution of full middle spaces for being and being seen within, belonging in and with.

There are so many things I have to tell you in whispers, so many only purely whisperable things I mean, and what then, anything.

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.