I Should Think It Like A Fist

I should think it rather like a fist drawing down on a hill of sand, hollow, scattering the fallout imperceptibly amongst a field of grain. It is like that initial taste of frozen fruit, salty to the tongue, the cold numbing the taste buds but for a fleeting moment prior to swallowing when the entire universe explodes within the mouth releasing all of the flavour of the ripest peach, but only for a mere second so fleeting it seems more a function, a trick of the mind than any tangible faculty, and is gone once again scarcely before another frozen pearl can be shovelled into the salivating oven.

It is sound. It is the sound love makes, and it is neither imperceptible not metaphorical. It is the sound of electricity coursing through a thousand copper wires to feed a single bulb. The sound of energy being born and dying and giving its life before it has a chance to exist. Power that dreams itself into oblivion, winking itself in and out of existence like rain pattering against a churning swell. You hear it every day, all of your life screaming within you, tired of its loneliness yet never quite threatening to release itself beyond your own private resolve.

It is language. Language so banal and inarticulate it can only be used to describe your every waking hour every God-damned day of your life. A language that reaches out and touches the world and everybody in it and brings them back to you in a way that you can understand. In a way that allows you to look on them and listen to their electricity without wanting or needing to snuff the life out from under them before they can do any real damage, for that is where life resides – underneath the body that makes it matter. We lourd it under ourselves like some sort of broken servant bent on our greater wishes, held in check by the mere weight of our astronomical netherpotence. This language that sedates us, and then drops like a stone in the wake of anything truly worth expressing.

Love, that silent cooler, shrieking itself forward, echoing outward from behind impenetrable woods and remaining just dark (and swift!) enough to elude any real formal recognition. A fine Sunday breeze and parlour verse over brandy and smoke, but leave the office for matters of the flesh. Leave Love for the diary. There’s the only one who ever believed in it enough not to deny it thrice in the face of any real attention, let alone conviction. Persecution.

It is the mother of all invention, that rewriting of reality that makes yesterday imperfect, today intolerable, and tomorrow unfit for today.

Feed yourself, and whence you are satiated, feed yourself again. Feed yourself to whatsoever may digest your constituent parts into a soil so safely inert that it will bare no fruit nor wheat nor cattle that will ever lead to another molecule within the universe asking, “Why?”