-I’m sick of metaphors, my own. The whole allegorical world in my head seems filled with technique and contrivance, an attempt at bridging the chasm between myself and others. In this effort I feel like Froggy waving frantically for Saturn’s attention, stripping down stark nude that he might be noticed by his creator, that he maybe validated-in some sense-for his humanity or simply as creation. Yet, even as I lay there, my skin turning a tomato red under the sun’s glare, the technique, the contrived language, crumbles under the glare of nothing more than that burning star which lights the day.
The revolutions continue, and I cannot dissuade myself from the panicked leaping and yelling as I stare out into the myriad stars, hoping my voice is not simply the echo swallowed by the infinity of space. I cannot move from where I stand, until something miraculous presents itself. In the near thirty revolutions around the burning star, I have not become aware of what that miraculous occurrence maybe. Still, I stare. I deplete my voice, my strength, all utterances and vocal vitality. I stand still amidst revolution.
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