Disparate and Being

They say that as humans we are set up to need, to want, to crave - emotional states. Thats part of how we’ve survived.. how love is derived..  How we stay so intertwined.

We are addicted to emotional states of being.  How much do you create your own emotional state?  How much does someone else bring that to you?  How do you know which one from the other?

Where does the dream begin? Do you share the same dream with him?

Or are you appearing in other people’s sense of reality that you will never feel, nor taste, nor make.  Never real for you?

I reel in this predicament.  I feel resentful of this disparate play.  To play out roles in other people’s heads that I am not in.  They create me.  My entrance and exit, my soliloquy, my rise and my lasting regrets.  And then I feel the consequence. They feed the character I play - with their own script, sound clips and visual angles.  The tensions and subtext, of which I never felt, persists within them - within their head, within their heart.

And who am I to say that it is not real? - for them?  Am I not real for them?

Okay I was on the scene.  I showed up that day. I had lines and feelings to offer.  I walked beside you and we spoke, but you heard other words, mostly your own.  I looked in your eyes and you saw someone else, thought you caught something.. of yourself, but I had sent nothing your way as I flew, landed and left feeling funny and running away.

And all this could happen - to you reading this now, to me looking at you - imagining the one that’s lifting these words off this page in a familiar voice inside your head, my words now yours,  

So I ask…                                                                                                                                 “Are we in the same dream?”  “The same movie, the same script?”

Just checking..

Don’t need an answer.  But thanks. Good to know,  for now.

Posted: April 15th, 2008 under NY Chronicles, my poetry, my thoughts.
Comments: 1

Walls

The walls come closing in. One hand reaches upward.                                                           One hand reaches upward as the walls come closing in.

I keep waking.  I keep walking.                                                                                              Turn the corner, pick up speed - dash under ground.                                                    Holding balance on the moving train.                                                                                    Taking in and pushing out.

Waking up and awaiting sleep again, relief again.

Beautiful city.  Life in pursuit.                                                                                       Lightening dashes in, thunder approaches fast                                                                       and the days keep pouring down.                                                                                         Drains fill and empty.

Noise and sleepless people,                                                                                                         a thousand bricks and windows.                                                                                               A million hearts to mend,                                                                                                     lives to fathom.

With so many,                                                                                                                            how could one feel alone?                                                                                                      With so many doors, how could one feel the walls pressing in?

Posted: April 13th, 2008 under NY Chronicles, my poetry.
Comments: none