It creeps. It flies. Sometimes it is upside down, or sideways. It ravages everything in its way. Nothing about it seems to change as it emerges from its rampage. It is as if it is a show, some sort of impresario art. Even then, it looks determined. It seems serious. To zoom so menacingly close signals potential intent. Not to mention what to make of the fumes it exhumes of multiple hues.
Yet, it is barely visible. It is small enough to sit on someone’s palm. Its shape is amorphous, its color, shadowy. It appears ethereal but seems honed here, on a mission yet unknown. Maybe there is a message in the act after all. What if that is in fact what is next, the message of hope that none must miss.
There is more. At times, it seems to be keen to communicate, to speak out on who knows what. Its stance is peculiar when it does. Hovering on the spot then wavering vertically in a slow motion mimicking acquiescence. Perhaps it is trying to elicit something in someone in a dialogue on the mission it knows is unknown.
Questions mount, on what abounds it may crave to change, as its sameness intrigues even when it seems change it may, or indeed, must given the pain in its wake. Not plain as a plane that some would insist makes its potential evident when it seems to want to change. As even then it morphs in moments with yet the mystery of change in play.
He says these things when he is clearly in pain, in his psyche he says for all to see he prays. More emphatic than ever, and as he says to be sure no one remembers again, that pain must be the same, he says it again and again to no avail, christened highly reactant again, he says must mean he jests his therapist needs the same.
He agrees his pain makes him say what may seem to figure must be in vain. He admits it may hurt to try to gain knowledge he deems necessary to understand his pain. He says to inflict such pain to curry insight into his may seem absurd to the sublime. Yet, he argues, his psyche laden with agony tells the story of all.
He says it is not spite. He denies hubris being at play. Nothing to do with a narcissistic oboe he maintains, to pierce the mystic core of nature though his goal seems in truth he hopes to gain. That soreness, the pain, the agony from within that crusts emerging from the crypts he says must stay the same as within to make the pain go away.
Thus, he reminds his parents of all he says, that he does not talk back just make them moan in pain. That what he tells them is crucial to the message inherent in what he describes he says they need to take for real as time lacks as it goes by is central he claims to the message he is certain its goal is to say.
He says being non-directive makes little if any difference to the point he hopes to make. That his parents say what they think he claims makes him know helping its goal is not in vain. He even says that it makes him less inclined to spread the pain they claim tells them he languishes as it makes this pain go away.
He claims to be free is inherent in all is what it really wants to say, the stealth, the manoeuvres, the menace all. He admits it may seem as his therapist says that he wants to be free is why he makes pain his toll others bear. Yet, he says the message is not in the pain that they feel as they do.
That his parents know him well he claims speaks to the inner sanctum of the pain he shares to make the point he says stick the way it should. Not to hear the thunder that wrecks havoc by the day we make is to him signal for intent not to make more pain. He argues its message just must sink so that the pain leaves us alone, to be free again, as forever, we should.
The children cry in his sleep he says, blown away for what who knows why if at all they should not know. They ask he says what also their mothers have done to lose so much for whom to gain. Then it shows up again, to remind him of the message it must want all to see, that it flies straight to where it desires to ache and moan who in agony for all to be free, at miniscule costs in might and kind to sundry.
The aerobatics signal change he says, in the palm of all to wit, perhaps. Yet, it is its aim for freedom to reign, he claims as the children still play, the manoeuvres in their palms, the pain in their eyes, as it tears through their tears to wipe their pain away. He cries too, he says. Even as he sleeps he says his pain feels the same, to watch the children play so far away from home, all alone.
This he says is why we must be free again, from thunderous machinations that take our children away, chaos clad in tandem in mystic gowns that float in his sleep torn by its might as the children watch and pray for their mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters to be safe, and to be free again.
It is time he says the free roamed with pride the earth again, not shackled in pain, condemned to sway amid the disarray in kind over and over again. He says it says it does not have to be the same, as in every palm peace sires freedom and frees pain from its eternal bondage we fiat. To be reactant thus, he says is okay, if to be free is what it says. It is, he says what its message is every night that he wakes up sometimes and cause more pain so that our pain may go away.
