What of death?

My left lung feels like there’s lead in it. My head is not clear, my effort at paying attention comes and goes. No, I don’t have that one, but some other one. Is this what fading feels like?

I lay on the bed, looking through the window. The world is the same, starkingly beautiful. Yeh, I know that’s not a word. I don’t care. I’m tired of googling things. I’m tired.

Oh, yeh, I look through the window, into the sky, into the white patch that’s covered by 5% of my eyes, the mind makes up the rest. I notice the light’s fading in and out, in and out. I get curious, so maybe this is what dying feels like?

When the lung is not working properly, nothing much goes. I wonder if the lack of oxygen coursing through the body will make people stupider. But no, people are plenty stupid already. Case in point.

Is it my fault? What’s happening now? Did I wish for it? Is it a wakeup call? A cleansing? Nature’s thriving again. The seeds must be sowed, for the future. Why should I care?

I’m not afraid of death. I often say it would solve all my problems. That doesn’t stop me from romanticizing it though. Isn’t that what we do? Chocolate, sex, glitters, death.

I’m afraid of living with no purpose. And since I’m still breathing, with one lung, or 1 1/2, the work is not done.

All is well. Whatever that means.

Charged.

You’re so beautiful, my tree.
Shiny, stark, sparkling crystals at the top.
The sun’s setting soon
and I share your yearning.
But you are also patient.
One minute is one day,
with one purpose:
to harvest the air & the soil,
to fill the world with rhythms & stories,
to stand alone.
Do you feel pain,
or just the absence of something,
a need to be filled?
Do you strive because of it?
Is there a reason that
your roots are clenching the stones?
Do you aid the worms?
Do you plant the springs?
Will you ever stop?
Have you ever dreamt?
Do you breath with your whole being?
Or just, as much as you can?
Is it because life is calling?
Especially when the light is fading?
Pretty soon it will all be silence,
not even the birds would sing.
You keep on breathing
in the darkness
one breath to the next.

To an actor.

Aren’t your exhausted
selling what you haven’t got?
Or just a bit of who you are,
but really no one gives a fuck?
You’re the money-maker,
the signage to the gift-shop.
Or maybe you’re the main attraction
who wonders when the time’s gonna be up.
All the fine details few can afford,
not sure should celebrate you or leave you alone.
Baby, it’s lonely in a crowd.
Every one needs something something, a lot.
How much are you willing to give to please?
Your time, your life, your peace, your god?
For the sake of a polaroid undeveloped?
Someday, somewhere when the lights come on,
will you be there or will it be someone else?

In keeping.

The evening’s one of those,
too good to be true.
One star’s burning bright
like it was once told.
Traffic air, crystal light,
somewhere a clink
of an unseen cup or knife.
Intoxicated by the moment,
forgetting the day’s toil,
all too grateful to be alive,
for nothing but this quiet.

I don’t know if I’ve told you
but I love you so.
And you can’t deny me anymore
but I can’t say I’m yours.
Some candle light,
once or twice on summer nights,
the floating feels & minds
never touching the ground
when you are showing me around.

Have I been patient?
Was I too troublesome?
Gave me one chance,
then 2, then 3,
keeping me guessing what it is about.
Then maybe I’ve always known.
The journey is the reward.

I wish you well.