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Introspection looks something like an autopsy. I watch from above and take note, in the wings of the operating theater. You could come closer and tell me everything. You could pierce the darkness. I feel you whispering in my ear, calling me to wake up out of my deluded reveries. I am losing the plot but gaining a confession, an exchange of spirit and matter.
The hour has been noted. The voice has been softened. Confess in me as I confess in you. I feel like I have found a reason, a conquering air carries me. I wander in the park and find the haunted carousel spinning, I find memories of a lost childhood in the debris. I spent so long searching for something and maybe I found it. Maybe the ghosts were guiding me by the haunted lantern, by the lost star, out to sea, into eternity.
The road is long and winding. The forest is always calling, I go past but secretly I want to stay, I want to disappear. Everything goes past in a deafening blur, the hour is half-eaten. I arrive to a hidden place that feels wrong, it is instantly cooler here, and a sickly green, dark, dark. I hear a bird-call and think it must be a bird-whistle. An illusion. I think of the piercing memory of the Aztec death whistle. Someone is screaming in this silence.
So much is spoken without ever coming close to the truth. I wake up in the middle of night, I wish I could understand what it is that is pitching itself in the depths. I feel like I need some sort of charm to ward off the bad feeling, something of the earth, something that can draw blood, something elemental, made of deerskin and rabbit fur. I want to claw out whatever it is that is blackening the water.
I think of all the lost people, I can’t get lost too. The air has turned. What am I missing? What am I not seeing? I wearily watch, as the dial turns, as the weather arrives to some sort of conclusion. There is no time to process the change, and whether or not it is good or bad. The marine layer settles over my mind, clouds my thoughts, makes it so that I can’t discern clearly and I can’t find you.
Where are you?
The roots of the tree burst out towards me like an enigma, calling my name. It looks like the aftermath of a natural disaster. The roots are black and twisted. There are forbidden voices in the wind. The oceanic breaks in the rock remind me constantly of my place in the world.
The spirit-collision amplifies. Yet, even in the darkness I sense you again. Will it be alright? (It will be alright) I should say less, I should reveal less, I should be comfortable with the glass eyes, with the museum, the body on display, what eats me at night is lost and all that remains is someone calling to me from the trees. Away, away
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