A glaring appendix sticks out from the crowd. It reeks of both faith and faithlessness in equal proportions. The faithless carry clouds of communion. The dispassionate fear change and the runners, trepidatious of their own misgivings; forever in flight. And in it and through it all, inertia thrives.
Inertia. Like the little child cupping breeze in the palm of her hands; where fairy tales, gravity and dreams all come together in one meaningful interpretation. Like the flower wilting in its core, unwilling to accept its imminent destiny. Like the feet that never step out and the hair that refuses to heal. Growing, ever so frailly from it’s roots. Inertia.
The relentless patterns that consume a wandering soul. Looping thoughts in an ever nugatory reinforcement that never ceases. Wrapped in a child who never was one, its resulting adult- unskilled at being one, clamoring in a single and final cosmic moment of voiceless clangor. Held on in pieces by the anemic hold of tiny bits of surgical tape. Failing.
That moment of recognition. Of understanding capacity. Or the lack thereof.
Warped. So warped and disjointed. Ever waiting. For a simple touch from the Hand of God. Like the rains that never make it. Like the wives who consistently forget themselves. Like the feet that crave to burst away from the tapping, away from the somewhere eyes they fear- and in one careless rapture, break into dance.
Inertia. Like the eyes searching in perpetuum. And the soul longing to move steadfastly onward. Onward. Onward. Always onward to somewhere out there.
There is no moment in time to return to. There is just this. This ever fleeting soul left to catch up with. Inertia. Linear. With blinders on, the wanderer travels in nauseating circles. A murmuring glow pouring out through dessicated wounds long forgotten. There must be somewhere to go.
The fettered heart watches crippled by the confinement of its own conditioning as the elan vital voyages beyond in the astral. Traveling to places so glazed and spilling brilliance in their animation. Perfection is a word that carries no antonyms here. It just is. Somewhere between twilight and the burgeoning night. Where passivity and action have no meaning. Only relativity at play.
Somewhere between inertia and force, is a pair of fleeting eyes, afraid of being lost, if they are finally found. Between the lines, the readings and warped messages- inertia creeps, and shamelessly calms.