Sometimes he knew things just by touching his fingertips to the surface. Things about people in other rooms, a head turning away and the way someone looked at another, watching their hair glide by in the lamplight. He could read their conversations pass through their laughing lips, hear the clink of wine glasses on unseen tables.
It was maddening. He just wanted to focus, to hold onto something fierce and not let go, but the harder he pressed the more the visions came, viscous like a syrup of casual chatter gliding down his spine.

So he let go, turned away from the work at hand. Stared into the sky and wished he could see visions of things out there. At least they would be truly unknowable. At least out there the creatures would be different enough that the visions would be incomprehensible to him. He wanted to glide somewhere between spaces, just above and just below, be alone and empty inside, alone and yet.
Someone was talking to him, a chuckle, a reminder of the task at hand. A gentle nudge. He focused and pulled himself into the vision again, and heard the whir of machinery as the box on his neck started its work.
Information being sought, he was just a conduit, a tool for others. Passage on the next flight promised. Maybe out there. Maybe peace sometime, in a space between.

As a youth, I would often go hiking with my father and sister. He had custody on some weekends, and we would often just get out his worn book of trails and choose one at random. One wintry day we struck out to hike the mountains around chimney rock in North Carolina. There is an elevator in the mountain, up to a visitor center, which we took in order to hasten our jaunt. Well upon arriving at the trail we discovered that it was completely iced over, a possibility none of us had thought possible in those mostly mild southern mountains. We could not hike the icy mountain that day so we turned back to head towards our vehicle and seek some other distraction. As we headed to the elevator the power in the visitor center went out. So no elevator, and no hiking down the icy trails. A door was opened to a shaft in the mountain, a small tight space with a tightly wound spiral staircase descending into the darkness below. We were told all visitors should take the stairs down, regardless of the fact there was no light in there, regardless of the rust I could see on the top rails, regardless of it shaking and creaking under our weight. So down I go, spiraling into the darkness, on slabs of ancient metal slick with condensation and smaller than my feet. I know any misstep might be my last, as a tumble into those Stygian depths would certainly be fatal. So I grip the rails as hard as I can, feeling the whole structure wobble under the weight of so many people. Down and down we go, everyone silent in fear, the only sounds dripping water and shuffling of feet. It was complete and utter darkness, an eternity of it, just step after step, creaking and wobbling. Occasionally I would touch the hand of the person before or after me on the rail and recoil in fear. I knew others were around me, could hear their breathing, but something about touching a person in the dark on that hellish staircase terrorized me to the core. For surely the noises around me could no longer be made by people? And wouldn't a group of people have at least one person muttering, making jokes to stem the fear? No, these creatures in the mountain depths were too silent, too repetitive to be humans. I had somehow gone through a wrong door, into a nightmare realm of always walking down and turning, never seeing where I was going or where I was.
Until, at last, a murky grey appeared below us. With the light the humanity began to return to my companions. People began to make jokes, comfortable now with the hope that it was soon ending. But I know the truth. For a while in that subterrane shadow my fellow travelers were replaced with mindless beasts. That is not what scares me however, what scares me is thinking that perhaps I too had become something less than human for the duration of that abominable descent.

there is a tiny death every day. waiting for the train, looking at the fellow passersby.

what dreams lurk beneath the surface of these troubled waters. ideas of dancing, ideas of climbing, of soaring, of swimming into uncharted depths. or simply a small wish for peace and a nights rest. these dreams sit in our eyes and blind us to the things in front of us from day to day. every moment precedes the next and so we are always ready to discard the current in hopes the next will bring fulfillment.

sometimes i have felt the dream fulfilled. a night in the woods sharing stories, a day on the sand with the cool breeze as my blanket. is it fair however that for each day i live, that i truly remember, a score pass by unnoticed? is this the exchange rate for the currency of sublime moments?

even worse for every hundred banal conversations about things and weather there is but one that i truly wish to have. if a book has one good page out of every hundred do we deem it worthy? an unfair metaphor to be sure, for the book is but one source, and the discourse of the mundane can flow from any font.

wandering through the trunks of trees that strive to breathe in the dust-choked land of the future, i watch as my hands touch bark that is too rough, too real for me to just ignore. i once walked to a dead ship hidden in the woods with a young lady and we touched the plants and animals as we walked through the swamps and summer heat. we were both strangers to eachother, new friends, and we both found something we were looking for; i found hope of a less mundane existence, she found hope of escape from the drudgery of pointless wandering. we both looked at eachother and saw lighthouses lit by ancient keepers who had long departed, and followed those lights with our eyes shut even when we knew they were fading.
it is now years later, and i still shut my eyes and feel those plants we touched, see the cracks in the sidewalk pass underneath my sweating feet, and i still look for lighthouses in everyones eyes hoping that the storm will soon subside and that all will be clear, and that i will not find myself thrust upon the jagged rocks.

i do want to think of myself as a passionate man. i know that i thrive for feelings of all types, of joy, sadness, desire, accomplishment, loss, loneliness, contentment, anger. i want to wallow in each moment, make them last forever and be able to find the string between them that reveals who i am, the commonality between experiences. i want to get lost in every feeling and experience it repeatedly until i understand my reaction, understand how the person i am defines what i learn and how i act because of my feelings. i don't wish to do this because i seek to control them, but rather only so i can be able to understand others reactions to things, and to be able to communicate what i learn through my paintings.

it seems that it is somehow a shameful thing nowadays to be unabashedly passionate. somehow it is improper to be an idealist and a romantic and be utterly sincere about it. the proper attitude is rather a detached jaded view of the world, where love is a lie people tell themselves to feel good about the world, and where truth is an antiquated relic that exists only as an example of our forefathers foolishness and pigheadedness. as if truth is real, as if love is attainable. and so long ago i adopted the habit of hiding my feelings in half-truths, in riddles and lies so that who i truly am is unmockable, so that i may live my life without fear of feeling guilty for wanting to love everyone and discover all truth and beauty. and when the idea of a passionate artist is mocked as a farce and a starry-eyed ideal, i laugh along.

most people see only the emptiness and despair. they are paralyzed by the openness of life, the truth that you can do as you please and that there are only consequences after your actions, not before. i know i do not know everything about life, but i am pretty sure of some things. that because everyone can do what they want all the time, it is important to decide what you want from life, and work towards having it. once you know your destination, life becomes a well-trod road, with only small detours from the path that do not deter you from your final goal. and that life is utterly meaningless without a goal. people see too many things to be, and cannot decide, and while their time away with things to keep busy, things to keep them going until they see the path meant for them, and most never realize the path only appears to those that set out on it, that fortune truly favors the bold. 

theres a certain feeling about it.

when yer feet scruff the carpet and the dust flies up into my nose, i can see that in slow motion, the tennis shoes as they back away and turn around, the wind sneaking through the door making me colder as you smile sweetly and leave.its like this image of blue jeans that will never leave my mind, creases and spots and rips, patched and unpatched, always moving always warm.

the softness of a face in a picture tells me again of things that are lost. there was a light around it, a glow that shows through in the image that tells me, this is the image, the slight look of anger, that look of anger and fear and love and happiness and annoyance all at once. that look that i saw more and more often and let the distance come in and fill up this crack that had appeared, filled it up and burst it all. im a fool for not seeing the distance behind that look and running through it, running past it and closing it off. i think thats me though, always seeing something going a bit away and being too afraid to move, too afraid to make the wrong decision.

for a second, ill tell you what i think. i dont change my pants much because i like the way they look. i like peeling the paint off of them in the days after painting. i like to draw characters out of the shapes made by the brush marks on them. i cut my own hair, and i wont let anyone else do it for me. my hair grows for me to cut it, its my toy to play with. i want to make others know that i have similar feelings to them, so that we can together be less alone. i realized once that no matter how close you are to someone, you are always alone on the inside, they cannot know your thoughts. but if you show someone something beautiful, that beauty brings a part of you into them, and they can cherish it and feel less alone. people that are not self-reflective do not enjoy mu company i think, for they do not feel the loneliness of life. i am here for those that have searched inside, and have found that it is only themselves, their thoughts, that no one else is here.

of course i still wonder if this is worth doing. if the touch of a hand will bring warmth that will not fade. i am lost in this maze of flesh and wants, seeing the negative and positive, judging neither and following the only obvious path. when i kiss my girl i only want it to be over, it doesn't bring me pleasure, only this pitiful suggestion of what pleasure should be, in the way a few pennies suggests real money. is it that i care for myself so little now that its impossible to care for others? how is it that its not written plain as day on my face, my nonchalance and my absentness.
like a paper boat in a drainpipe, surrounded by dirt and beauty im stuck in the tar, anything that moves me forward destroys me as well. i long for beauty but what could i do with anything beautiful? am i capable of preserving it, serving it, changing it, of even witnessing it at all? or am i so full of sorrow and regret that my words are meaningless whines and mumbles, perceived as self-referential babble by a populace that has no way of understanding? how can i change my facade, how can i empty this sad serenity that has flowed from the inner depths of my mind ever since i first realized i had to care for myself?
i cannot communicate wisdom i do not possess to people that have neither the time nor inclination to care or listen.
my madness will surely destroy me, for how can i fight the demon that brings me the only pleasure i know.

or mebbe im just upset cause there is no weight behind the kisses i receive, no sweeping melodrama that quickens my pulse and drives me crazy with confusion. and of course i want confusion, it gives me something to work for, a goal that cannot be accomplished simply be knowing what is wanted and doing it. any fool can do that. i want to work for something intangible only to have the focus switched to some other random point, for all perfect things have their flaws, only boredom is flawless.

an american dream of whiskey and starlight, the cool breeze through your hair. memories are what i am made of, because they are the only imagery that is solid enough for me to really grasp. sometimes if i am lucky i can mold a hunk of bronze in my mind, create an image powerful enough to stay there forever, maybe rusting and getting covered in bridshit and leaves, but permanent nonetheless. as i lied near the river passing between the past and the future i grasped at the fibers of who i am. pulling them all tight and trying to braid it all into a rope i can use to tie down my dreams.
a small harbor for launching boats. needlefish are always there, the water has always been that same murky green, the color of a swimming pool that no one will ever bother to clean. he was always getting frustrated so easily, i hope the same doesnt apply to me.