Fragments of me

After a long drive, it seems, it is.

But you knew that. Of course, or you wouldn’t be reading.

Go away. I’m waiting… gone? Okay.

That first stroke, that first, buttery stroke across the canvas. It’s magic. But you wouldn’t understand because you don’t want to understand. I do, you know, I do understand more than I let on. And that’s okay. Really. Because it is.

The words of Timothy Leary come back and I wonder sometimes, yes, I do wonder, and the words are not of the prophet on the subway walls, they are me because we are me are you are he are she are they are me are me are me.

Are me.

Or did you just skip that chapter?

It’s not for you, it’s for me. So don’t ask. Because I don’t always know. Sometimes it’s fragments of the day. Sometimes it’s fragments of the night. Sometimes it’s fragments of me. Okay, always fragments of me.

There were 4 of them, on stools, and I was wondering why they didn’t understand that it was real to me, and, yes, I knew it was a dream, but they just couldn’t come down with me to visit it. I wanted to drag them and the thread was continuously wrapped around them, sitting there on their stools, looking at me. Don’t look at me. Don’t. Because you’re figments. And that means you’re me. We. You. They. Me. Same. The stools and they questioned and I answered. I told them and they didn’t believe me. It was like a golden thread. Long, shiny in spots, but not everywhere. And they didn’t believe me but it was wrapped around them and I was in and out of the dream as they stared, the screen illuminating their countenances. I didn’t have to come out; the thread was there. Can’t you see it? You were watching, but you didn’t see. You couldn’t see. I wouldn’t let you, despite my begging you to see.

Rambling. Screaming at eternity as if it gave a fuck.

That first stroke of buttery oil paints on the canvas. Dry. More linseed oil. Flax? Next stroke, covers the old strokes, covers the darkness, covers all that I see, all that I am, all I will be. Am. Are. Fragments.

Are me.