THE TACITURN // THE TREES

 

I wonder if you even know what you're running toward.

If my place is anywhere, it’s with the taciturn, the trees. Generation of followers, but who's in the lead? Y'all say you slay but I see no blood and no bodies; claim king and queen but boast no crowns and no kingdoms. Follow for follow, like for like, go ahead and scroll your life away.

I have no place in the charade, I lack the stomach for it. Politics & dogmas, socialite attention wars, the buck-for-buck contest that has pitted man against his neighbor and woman against herself, each and every day starting and ending with quantified worry, that ever-present, ever-fluctuating, ever-rising oh,-fuck-no-I-think-it’s-falling, never-enough stream of digits that is supposed to encapsulate the whole of human worth on Earth.

Keep buying things. It’ll be okay, because capitalconsumerism is the doctrine that says you can buy your way to heaven. But wait, act now! Grab pre-sale tickets and get through the gates before anyone else! And for fifty more quid, a meet n’ greet with Saint Paul, exclusive access to the silver cloud room, and free bottles of holy water for the rest of this eon.

A beggar dies tonight ‘neath the overpass, her belly full of McRib™ and malort, bra filled with frayed federal reserve notes. The prince, meanwhile, fades away in his keep— his family is there, his physician too, to oversee the transition and keep him comfortable, hydrated and nourished 'til his heart beats its last. The moment he goes, the atmosphere is breached— a comet streaks across the sky, blazing itself into the history books. The peasantry ooh and awe. The gods have spoken. The plans are laid. White gold and lapis lazuli, shut down the city, procession down the parkway. Even newly-corpsed, the rich man needs attention.

This is your religion? Sprinting to Friday, soul-sick on Monday. Adulating strangers, workpostwatchdrinkcry. Trampled paradise underfoot, desperate for heaven unseen, sapient apes thrashing in this consensual hallucination.

You’d have me participate but don’t speak the same dialect. I say what I mean, take and build what I want, ain’t time time for much else. Claimed sovereignty, branded sinner. People who shut their eyes against the glare of the scoreboard curse me for grazing the ball.

Tell me I’ve been too honest. I fucked up being sincere, flesh and blood man stays calm, never manic, stoned face, petrified mannequin. Told you what’s wrong, what I want, who I thought I was, what it was I felt...Radio silence— I can only conclude that these words are failing me. Let’s compromise:

You keep not saying the things you think about the most and lying to people you love. I’ll be here, inside, watching the clouds crumble.

Turned to the mirror and didn't dig what I saw, so I shattered that shit and gouged my eyes out, figured that would solve the problem on both ends, and why do a thing if you're not gonna be thorough? I know for certain beauty never saved a life, it’s paranoia that keeps me safe at night.

Found a sealed fate in Hel’s lair with my name on it; I’m having strong acid, close to dissolving the adhesive. Once I realized mineself was a fiction it became hard to stay in place. To navigate 3-dimensional space.

But anyway. Anodyne, anesthetic, analgesic; you won’t feel me. 🌑

— AIDEA APASHĪ