Diving

Dive one modified.
Here I am diving again. How I miss those great whales that we all became when we realized that we were greater than the average fish. I have seen many cats. All disappoint me. They follow me into places when I go to the library. I often watch the girl with the raindrops stained on the back of her hand pick up books at the library. She rides to see her friend. The boy with the striped sweater. He is abused; his hood always pulled to his brow. He stacks wood at the yellow house. No, the man with the beard. He lives at the guard tower that tries to keep me out of an alley of lost dreams and sweaty nightmares. Oh, how the light is burnt to a scentless smell. The ground is computerized. The forest, a simple graphic. But I find my way anyway. Especially when I paint my face. I remember the time I tried to paint the ocean in the mercury of a broken thermometer. I often want to write about the moon. But my words, like blood, are a primitive tool. And in a tangent universe my brothers are at war with specialized soldiers. Am I playing it up? Or am I playing music? Who are you to decide? Why do I find myself craving only the dead? Who were you to die anyway? What made your life so great that you had a right to its exit? I want to be released sometimes. I think. No, I just want to be released from you. Demons don’t control my hand nor tongue. I am collapsing with anguish and anxiousness. I feel like my desires have been warped like soggy Bibles in the camp chapel. But all this time, all I have ever wanted to write about is cornfields. Yes, cornfields. Fields of corn. And how they dance in blue dresses beneath a coin that is sinking into a sea they will never see. Cornfields help me get a grip on things. But, how different they are from cleavers! What has changed? I bring myself to that question of the first musical layer. Does what I make of the present determine the future or what becomes of the past? What have I done! Oh, Eli, what have I done? Who really drives that bus? The 15th. Does she even know that I am always right behind, next to, passing and speaking to her? Of course not! No one drives the bus! The devil drives the bus full of children straight into an ever friendly abyss of chalkboards and text written by a man called Nietzsche. Oh, oh my soul! Corn fields. Whales
You. And me. And you. And…just a little beyond. You.