Liv

When I leave my body, she is one place that I go. She is driving a car. The car looks like my old Toyota, but it smells like iron or blood instead of stale coffee. We are speeding on a New England highway, in winter, with the windows open.

Streetlights flicker as they pass above us, bringing the same shine to the ice and to the car’s steel. It’s familiar, exhilarating to be free. I see her shiver in thin clothing, but we are indifferent to the body’s concerns.

There is one, holy power of mind – the will. It is our bending trajectory through the night. I am scared. I know we will not slow. I am afraid the night or the cops will take us – they are cold steel and ‘order.’

She turns on the radio, and the volume is an energy without sense. There might be homes on the side of the highway. People sit before their televisions, burrow into dull lives. We don’t care. There are streetlights. We don’t care.

Thrilling, my heart. She is part of my rising spirit, the one that survives, that tramples those other ephemeral lives. Worst of all, she is real, living and feeding and fucking. Delivering tirades to the masses on YouTube, the masses who cannot keep pace. We accelerate.

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Whose decision?

But I do have psychological gravity. I converge on a center.

Pre-dream I envisioned myself as a plant branching towards the sun of my soul. I saw myself contort as I grew, the limbs folded in and over, towards light. Towards exposure of essence.

Resting, today I watched the world. Out of deep internal silence, dry mouth, or fear. I watched as the world expected. Telling myself I did not need to perform incessantly, reminding myself that death would deny me that kind of eternity, common to waves and light rays.

I tried to strike the flint at my heart, to generate the energy, the draw. The showman meets expectations. But in my closet mind, I relived my practice of silence, begun in childhood. Extracting the sound from footfalls, the sighs from breath, to be the walls. To be structural and so inviolate.

‘So calculated, so calculating’ – that is the critique that goes with acting internally. But the world inserts itself, impeding known movements. And the soul moves.

I act quietly to avoid preemption – the louder footfalls. I act quietly to act at all.