Lift off.
I am overflowing with self expression. My floor is flooded with all the things I have ever tried to say. And the back of my spine, well, it's trying to remember where I shelved the books. Was it the 5th vertebrae, or in the attic under the lamp with the long orange extension chord?
In trying to examine the logistics of this sudden flood in relation to the history of critical drought I find myself creaking to such a stop. I think of kindling (all the pieces and ideas and thoughts that are pulling towards the same ecstatic fire) and I think of the breath that breaks them into flame (I have been drawing in breath for ever so long). It's almost as if I have stopped.
Is it like the series of photographs above? I wanted to keep going up and up and up. But there was a limit to my gravity-less-ness. I need something to hang on to. To convince you.
And maybe that's when the fire will start. The books will never be found, but they'll start to own their own space like a magnet or dark matter. An invisible weight. It cannot be explained but suddenly ---Ah!
