Go to your home. Your home isn't the same as mine anymore.
The place I've got is small but there are big empty spaces
shaped just like you and your guitar are shaped, and
they echo deep like catacombs, these hollowed corners,
this seat not taken, and the music you gave me
that part of me was broken. Not your fault
or my clumsiness, just a gift given for a short while
to borrow so I could shine. It always had to be returned,
or maybe it was caught by a morning bird.
It was beautiful
but I'm not a bird.
And you're not a cat.
You have a life,
just the one, and it's no rehearsal for another chance
to get it right. Get it right and when you do, what?
You got it right so many times. You were right for me,
then. But now, go to your home, to yourself.
Breathe in and out of balloons, just air
as if it's the kind lovers share. When you decide
to throw yourself down a K hole, be careful.
You aren't reborn when you come out. You aren't perfect.
Nothing ever is and ever was. We can't even
conceptualise that which is perfect. Only one thing
could possibly be- that's not existing or having been
at all. No circuit boards to switch you into the next life.
If you think you're there, and I'm holding you,
I am not there. If you are right and really are there,
we were worlds apart longer than I thought.
Let the vodka and beer trash your brain cells,
take hallucinogenics and make epiphanies of what you see.
Watch your fingers making trails, scooping the sky
and turn your hands into something mythological.
I'm sincere when I say you have made miracles with them
when your hands meet your mind and suddenly
there's music and I'm changing beat by beat,
skin shedding, extracellular activity, alterations
in neurological structures, cells turning over,
cells being regenerated or depleted or myelineated
or dying. Fundamental changes, but on the inside
you can't see glucorticoids and dopaminergic pathways
and you can't see the heart taking a beating either.
I can't remember seeing the changes. I just remember
the difference between being happy and being unhappy
and I hadn't been happy in enough time to remember
it was meant to be better. I needed to be better.
So when you are home with yourself, love yourself
like you had the courage to do while I cower
at the thought of really knowing. And when someone
is at home with you, tell them what you told me-
those words that had been all I'd ever wanted to hear
my whole life, those words I believed.
This time, make sure it's the right person for them,
those words, and this time, mean them.
This time, don't ignore time passing until somehow,
someday, somehow, you are walking away.
Tell her that she's a wonderful human, not a witch
or alien or psychic. Tell her she amazes you
with her ability to love you too. It's not hard to do.
Now stop looking in K Dick books and biblical texts
and through song lyrics to find links. Stop baring
your inner hypocrite with a quote from the Old Testament
as if it means something for you now, as if it ever meant
anything to anyone but those who needed faith
and wanted miracles and a storybook was enough.
That was never enough for the you I knew,
It's a worldwide bestseller. It's the ultimate classic,
Contributions by people with wild William James, J.D. Ballard,
Lewis Carroll imaginations. Imagined themselves prophets.
Don't read between those lines.
Coincidences happen when you l a straight 6 each time
you're rolling for chance, rooting for fate,
relishing in conspiracy.
Go home to yourself and find yourself again,
the one who was able to decide in Berlin to not forget
what he'd seen and learnt after swallowing seeds,
the one who let me go through
interactions with illusory voices
because he had strength enough to know the real from the unreal-
to know my unconscious mind from my waking one,
my own, the one that I was holding to tightly,
so tightly while holding tightly to you.
Maybe I held so tightly you needed to breathe
and all I could speak were whispers and tics
until I said my name and it sounded like an apology.
Maybe you held me so tightly I needed to breathe.
Maybe you needed to be with yourself, your love.
Maybe I needed to be with someone else, because
it let me remember again how it feels to be happy
and know you make someone else happy.
Go home and be emotional. Be as emotional as you are
in a way that reveals elevated emotional intelligence,
in a way that I could never be for never knowing
how I feel or what it is making me feel whatever I do.
You'll soften eventually. Your sadness will balance-
our reliance on our own immune realism is unknown by most
but you're more resilient than you think,
you're more curious than you think,
you're the one- really, of us two- who wanted knowledge
and wanted to know what's beyond our boundaries.
You wanted more than I was able to help you procure
hemmed in neatly between the borders of my brain.
Go home and forget me if you must.
Go home and believe, if one thing only, this:
You are beyond compare. You are the stars, satellites,
celestial bodies. They fell out of my universe
into my hands after it all and they were still warm
like your night breaths and still shone like your eyes
when kept open while kissing. The cartographers
of outer space rewrote the maps and you were removed
from me topographically.
I can't warm my hands holding them anymore,
Sometimes I wish I'd lose my memory.
Anyway, it's late to say it now but go to your home
to yourself, find the relics of him,
make sense of the start of yourself again and then
you'll begin at the beginning, becoming yourself again.
