Ian Curtis

She is at once all that exist. If I circumnavigated each synapse to synapse and lobe to lobe to the furthest of crevasses, I know I would see her image the same I did when I created this reality.
You can only look at a picture for so long before it begins to resemble a mosaic. Each individual tessera is imperfection to perfection, but why would perfection matter to someone like me?
Is perfection the scratched out lines?
Is perfection illegible handwriting?
Is perfection that moment that I finally raise my forehead from my journal after conjuring one thought that could possibly be developed into two thoughts?
Is perfection my midsection contracting with the belief that if I strung thoughts into intricate spider webs you may view this?

This carpet is not soft; it is worn, and it is not valuable. Yet, my face still rests on this carpet. I desire to see your hazel eyes stare back into mine. They are gray, but weak; therefore, they cannot hide all that I’ve placed in a diminutive brick building that lacks any source of external light.

I cannot enter that building, but I cannot bring myself to demolish it.
I cannot determine if the building is a figment.
I cannot determine if the masonries that constructed this dilapidated cinema, slab by slab, are figments.
I cannot determine if every memory is just a figment.

I wonder if the memories are alphabetized, like they are collecting dust, waiting for the story to be reenacted. There is probably a decrepit screen projector stored next to the memories, but knowing my luck, it was handcrafted before Ford made his millions.

I hardly know what a story is anymore, just as I’ve lost touch with reality. I wish I was strong like Bismarck, but I also wish I could languish like Kafka, if they even existed. I want to sing like Whitman, but my voice isn’t strong.

Do you remember when you laid on my chest, a chest that became valuable?
Jeremy Ashida was Whitman, and I was meek, but my voice carried to your ear like an empty bottle found containing the answer to any question ever asked.

Do syllables make words or are words turned into syllables. How many syllables did it take for you to muster a quaint question about a dessert, and how many syllables ran through my mind for me to laugh at such a preposterous question.
I think all of this happened, but I cannot be sure, because some things are better off forgotten.
If I could bury my misdeeds, I would. I’ve tried to bury them, but I have the scars to show my faults.

How long did your heart take to finally form three syllables into three words? How long did your heart need before those syllables were no longer directed towards me?
Part of me is cognizant that none of this was reality, because all of me knows what a tragedy it would be if you and me weren’t happy.

Though, if it was not reality, I could move an ocean. I could bring you to me, and I would show you how to study the science of sleep.

My conscious tells me that it was all reality and that the ocean is always expanding. I know nothing last forever, and you were a gull searching for different weather.

I feel like I’m left alone in a world of poems and paintings. I’m a madman pacing around the dirt that surrounds the building. I’ve torn books apart, I’ve taped them back together, and I have tried to annunciate every syllable. I tried to create words, and I tried to erase words. I tried to erase what you said to me, but I knew that it rang true. If I used a word such as pain, could it represent all that I could not say that courses through each vein?

What is overdramatic about my words, when we belong to a world built on such migrating surfaces? Wegener proved tectonics, and he showed me nothing was too absurd.

My face is still horizontal to this beige carpeting, and I still have no perception of reality. If I knew a way into that brick complex, I would close my eyes during each scene of every microfilm, because I would just want to hear your syllables warp into my name, even if none of it truly existed.


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