Mr. Alchemist

I don’t know why I write so much. But if I had to guess it’s because I got tired of suffering in silence. If I’m going to suffer, well, I’m not going to share it, but I can at least transmute it, and laugh at my folly. Who wouldn’t?

And I figure if I share some traces, found between the punctuations, not that it’s that interesting, or what resolved or starts up again, and even with all that’s hidden, I think I could at least leave some clue. Some way to move forward, something to unlodge the same lump you may feel. Or not! Could be an exhibit.

After all, we both inherited a dying empire, evicted from the village. My cleats remain dirty and I hope the dried chunks of blood wash away in the mountain trails. When you smell enough of the detergent from the abandoned garage, ignoring the vines growing, smudging your eyes to look at the crumbling schoolside or car in broken glass with a rat domicile for the backseat. The other day a cul-de-sac was flushed with an apple pie fragrance. I wonder if Appleseed is the primary tale found in American veins, however forgotten. However many more thickened roots we must step over.

Do you know what’s the secret to most of the media you watch? The ones that mean something, at least. Because you could pull out all of the Hollywood specials, or other boosted-up and octane dripping top 40s. I don’t think that counts; popped champagne rings too hollow.

It’s how much the creator suffered in silence. Or loved in silence, if suffering is the way to get there.

But I find it so goddamn sad how many suffer in silence and don’t take a step to change it. You don’t have to be an alchemist but you could try breaking it up a bit. Silence amplifies everything, and if you let it so portals open, old hallways and the portraits you’d be too afraid to look at. Sensing the time pass.

I’ve seen too many arms shaking and gasping in my line of work. And I’m not sure how real it is, because I can’t find the threads to connect parts of my life. It’s all disjointed, and you could argue between us it’s always a quilt to tapestry, out of the mortal coil you could say it’s a painting, however vividly coloured and cold-drop of an ocean to breathe in, but I’m not sure where I begin and end, and what I ought to relinquish.

I know I shouldn’t look at any of this, shouldn’t mention it. I need to expunge all of this inner raging and over-analyzing, explaining all of the twisted ankles from running; I know everyone loves the enthusiastic. I’m not sure why I have to be like this.

But I know, at least, with enough of this bile sometimes Pez dispensers float in. Maybe if one gathers enough of them you’d make a raft to some stairs higher than this.

These are my grimoires, however lossy it translates. I hope maybe I can write away everything, and hope that others find their own vehicle to transmute their silence into some relief.