Can You hear Me Now?

Even if you are not listening, you might hear me in your dreams as I send out psychic forces to haunt you into submission to my incorrigible will. You will not destroy yourself if I can help it. Love, love, love, that is the strange misty fog clouding your brain in the middle of the night and yes, it comes from me. I know you've given up believing. I know you've given up on hope. On humanity. On life. On yourself. I know you just go through the motions one by one, sighing and dying and forgetting how to care. Life has taken some sorrowful turns. Most of us compromise so much we forget who we are, what we really wanted out of life, and what really matters to us. Some never even has the luxury of free time to think about it, no less figure it out. We rush through life so much from so early on, to grow up and work ourselves to death for an illusion of freedom and independence, that we miss the point and make no point, pointless, scoreless, we feel like losers shut out of the comfortable carefree imaginary lives we watch on TV. Placated by vicarious thrills, momentary winks, grand delusions of some promised future paradise, and impulsive instant gratifications of sensory pleasures, life is gone before we even realize it was ever here, or what we were here for. Still, let into the night, a strange mist calls out, like a magnet it draws us toward it. That is the energy of hope that I am sending out. May you always find it, if only in your dreams.

Of A Life

I never say goodbye to a past life (past life) for each represents someone I love (at least one). There are also the letter books in storage from the time before the internet (yes, there was such a time), but even since the cyberspace invasion there are many previous lives (previous lives) and if I gave a letter to each one to signify identity, so far there would be E and C(n), harkening back to goo (or something like it, when the alphabet began, though come to think of it, G was pre-blogging and still never had a book at the time, or a name, for that matter, in case it matters, for she repressed the writing, singing, creativity and I wonder if that was conscious, jealousy, or some sort of misandry, or something like that... see, we did get to that phrase just the same, snarky mischief maker, all), and starting with A, even though there were scattered pages before that, but returning to the cyber-past, there have been more than those two reincarnations (reincarnations) in these online written gardens (written gardens) and not all mine (not mine, yet me, aye Z?), for hope returns and love never dies (remember the fifth and sixth and more, never give up, never surrender, no matter how dark the dark may seem {maybe, what?}, there are still ancient heartbeats {heartbeats}, sleeping, if you can find them), and since the beginning (with pen and paper, offline), long ago (long ago there was no end (no end) in sight, so I still never say goodbye to the past lives (past lives) in this life.