writing the impossible
{unknown artist}
"you are the poem i never knew how to write and this life is the story i have always wanted to tell." -tyler khott gregson
the problem lies in the clichés i would use while i lay in bed whisper soft beside you i must write you as protagonist and antagonist in my story tough to comprehend how you are one and the same yet i look at you and time stops, the novel main character la meilleure mauvaise idée pour mon cœur fragile. artists suffer from madness they feel when they discover a tear in the space time continuum the only repair requires a sweet surrender, to dissociate from the body willingly out of control and lost in a world only the artist can create. i observe myself from a transcendental plane high above my body as my pen makes streaks across this paper like jet streams in the sky. hidden in the folds are the shivers i get mere thoughts of us naked in a tent while the rain pours matted hair and balmy skin, on this page i live with you in sin in a reality without rationality unafraid and daring but also wondering how to progress if the second hand stays stuck in regress. i could reside in this single captured moment if i thought myself safe but my hard heart, somehow that's an easy target. the problem lies in the clichés as if a winning formula exists to describe how your essence flows through my veins, an electrified jolt that lights up the darkness like a firefly in the forgotten forest of my nightly dreamscape. escape from you? i could not even if i wanted to. regular fights and hot nights you anger me yet lift me up so high that i could don a cape and fly straight to the bottom of the ocean to bring you back the megaladon. i am already accustomed to breathlessness and blindness you conditioned me for it. i don't mean to look through a magnifying glass i know that's the fastest way to make things burn especially with so much sunlight around and my tendency toward self-sabotage but you asked me where the problem lies. i cannot answer exactly but speaking abstractly, if you were a musical note you would be a solemn bell that rings out in the distance as a cracked guide into battle for the liberty to be imperfect a difficult sound to reproduce but if you could hear it like i have heard it you would long to. so i search for the lines that will pop into my head and out of this poem into your own brain's never-ending monologue. these complexities are not the recipe for fiction though our adventure seems like a ubiquitous fantasy that i could read aloud for hours on any given evening when you are absent. i can relive your touch with a sole reflection on the fact that your soul has mirrored mine since our eyes aligned in the astral dimension, they say sensory lag trains us to constantly retell the story of our lives in our own minds. we can never be in the present always in the past contemplations of events we wish to last. as time loses meaning i try to scribble these frantic words before they find their way to the abyss of memory, writing you is a challenge because with no end in sight and a character-driven plot i have no authority over you for you go where you desire. you are not an idea but somehow you still wander into my head.