Eureka in Ethiopian Sand
04/12/2022 – Neptune & Jupiter in Pisces Conjunction
I found Jesus in the brown of cinnamon ash.
He caressed me with chestnut-colored skin.
in his hand, he held a flash narrative:
the nature of generational perspective, inverted.
He’s been listening; knows I’m obsessed;
projecting woes of individual, globalizing—
casting light & color onto broken reflections—
mirrors, memories, & martyrdom; refracting self & soul.
it’s been such a blessing to memorialize perception;
the ways I’ve been captured a still life as I’ve grown.
but perceptions & sensations have grown rancid, too
as I make space for narratives: complicated; interwoven.
I feel(lt) I have no more heart & mind to hold
stories of traumas & heartbreaks before untold.
I feel(lt) I have no physical or digital space to hold
the digital pens; windows; mirrors we’re frozen in.
sometimes things are meant to be immortalized
simply: in pure black & white. brown & grey
don’t always need to be made space in cabinets
where they wouldn’t be seen or appreciated anyway.
but after all, I have heart & mind to mend experience.
I am, after all, an hourglass, full of sand & sentience.
I am meant only to flip; undo & redo myself; free souls
of cant’s; convictions; wants & needs of communities.
I am so focused on freedom & its agency;
I am so blinded by the journey in front me,
that forgetting the path designed for me is easy.
I often forsake the wisdom I’ve been forced to see.
but after all, it’s hard to hear
when all you have is sand—clenched grit in hands—
sloshing around, sublimating silently in inner ears.
you can confuse silence for screams; forsake bodies’ lands.
when I bent down to sweep up the cinnamon, I listened;
the plight of the generation: teleporting while stationary.
we’ve found a way to suffocate ourselves while standing.
I was convicted I wasn’t meant to live in this life—famous.
but after all, convictions are only convicted until wrong.
I can(’t) be the first one to tell you how wise & wrong
become each other’s songs in heads & hearts of conviction;
narcissism; gluttonous with validation of crowd-mirrors.
I cleaned the cinnamon; eyes’ fine lines swept away
of nights I spent up exhausted & unsettled.
tired as I was these nights, thoughts couldn’t pause.
my mind’s eye needed to fast-forward towards freedom.
I have a clairvoyance that feels forbidden; forsaken;
completely off of its own head; unbalanced by precipices
of potential; opportunity; enterprise; experience.
it’s all waiting to be grabbed in the sand before the wind,
impatient, blows it away. eyes, heavy & tired, show infinite
ways I’ve been explicating my path; sublimating the thing
I want to capture in its purest chemical essence: narrative.
it’s one thing writing; knowing. a different feat: believing.
I understood, yesterday: all we are is time.
I understood: human frames are things to suspend.
what I couldn’t write, or fully comprehend, the grittiness
which accompanies the grain who makes the sand.
no one is a better man for accruing more grain & grit;
no one suddenly becomes whole wheat bread
the more & more oppressed they become.
they just become condensed; pressurized; stretched;
further & further removed from the form of self;
further & further deluded-while-convinced
they have the toolbox & emotional arsenal
to forage ahead, into the unknown, ignorant.
the cinnamon dropped over the counter
made me feel closer to God in a simple mistake
than I ever had with directly-declared prayers.
it felt fated to sweep away the grains of sand.
when we tell our tale with digital pens,
we become sworn to the laws of martyrdom.
you can never empathize or realize experience
you haven’t first felt in your head; heart; mind.
it doesn’t matter how great the sand or story is,
ignorance won’t be blown away by impatient wind.
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