There's a surface
Then there's a wall
And the wall is bare
From all the times it's been hit
There's something beneath the surface
That longs to move beyond the wall
That sees a pattern of wallpaper and paint
And turns it into living flesh
Then there's the projection
That acts as a surface
That's thrown out at arm's length
That you slam other people against
Until it's raw
Dead flesh for zombies, dead flesh for feeding
But none of that really touches the whole of you
None of that really gets down to the business
That there's room inside,
Four walls, multiple walls, a ceiling with faceted angles that look inward
At time, at the surfaces, at the person
That longs to move beyond the loft
But once loose, then what?
Run the naked world free of rope, barking, rolling in the grass?
Do you foam at the mouth? Loose your docile nature as others have known you?
Do you remember what the reaper's edge was for
And regard the chore with disdain?
Or pass him with a kind of grateful gladness in your heart
That says "I am free because of you?"
"you're in survival mode" the hopeful teacher chides, "you have to make the shift"
"Tiredness will be the pervasive feeling."
"A turn of the wheel of Samsara," and you know the face is holy,
but as quickly as they are erected
the wall, the surface, the structure, the fence, the rope
and you think about the patterns of wallpaper and paint and freehand drawing and music and the dance
and you say, only to yourself,
I know better
And continue on through the maze
Confident of finding your way out
Is there a way out?
How do you see the way out
When obstructions pass through your line of sight
Like clouds over the stars
Like clouds over the deep blue possiblities of the sky on an overcast day?
There is no way out
No way outside of you
Turn about and stand your ground
Defend your doghouse
Paint your mother fucking walls
And let the kids pet you
Keep your foam to yourself
Look to the times when you are alone
Look into the pattern