"in the weeds" aka...
under an enormous pile of...jambalaya - i actually just like to say the word "jambalaya."
pretend that you are under a mountain of randomly strewed...books (how fitting)
there is no light.
you are protected only by a shabbily constructed support system that you have managed to build high enough to accommodate your body, although your legs must stay crossed and you are hunched, the shape of your back a perfect bow just below the roof of your protective literary sheathing.
your only source of air comes from placing your mouth around the straw-like outlet you created from tearing pages out of a glossy paged book and rolling them up like a straw, leading them out through the tiny little glimpse of light you'd seen days before...or lifetimes ago...
your only steady stream of oxygen.
"they" say people can go crazy confined in a dark and crowded space for and extended period of time, eventually losing the ability to track exactly that:
time.
you can get out.
it is possible.
but you must arrange and organize strategically and meticulously from the inside, causing things you can't see on the surface to shift with each of your buried movements.
sometimes a space appears that you can just barely reach an arm through and feel books on other layers above you...
the absence of light when this arm-width space is created only reminds you that the layers are deep...they are heavy.
you reach, blindly, feeling...touching...sending images to your brain as you try and construct the appearance visually without the use of you eyes...
flashes of light separate these images in your head as you try and construct and document the details of what your fingers touch.
you must build your way out, blindly, risk as your only lead and your only threat, knowing that each move you make in the process could cause the demise of your protective nucleus, leaving you once again without oxygen, foundation, support, or beginning.
but i always welcome a challenge...
...such is life...
under an enormous pile of...jambalaya - i actually just like to say the word "jambalaya."
pretend that you are under a mountain of randomly strewed...books (how fitting)
there is no light.
you are protected only by a shabbily constructed support system that you have managed to build high enough to accommodate your body, although your legs must stay crossed and you are hunched, the shape of your back a perfect bow just below the roof of your protective literary sheathing.
your only source of air comes from placing your mouth around the straw-like outlet you created from tearing pages out of a glossy paged book and rolling them up like a straw, leading them out through the tiny little glimpse of light you'd seen days before...or lifetimes ago...
your only steady stream of oxygen.
"they" say people can go crazy confined in a dark and crowded space for and extended period of time, eventually losing the ability to track exactly that:
time.
you can get out.
it is possible.
but you must arrange and organize strategically and meticulously from the inside, causing things you can't see on the surface to shift with each of your buried movements.
sometimes a space appears that you can just barely reach an arm through and feel books on other layers above you...
the absence of light when this arm-width space is created only reminds you that the layers are deep...they are heavy.
you reach, blindly, feeling...touching...sending images to your brain as you try and construct the appearance visually without the use of you eyes...
flashes of light separate these images in your head as you try and construct and document the details of what your fingers touch.
you must build your way out, blindly, risk as your only lead and your only threat, knowing that each move you make in the process could cause the demise of your protective nucleus, leaving you once again without oxygen, foundation, support, or beginning.
but i always welcome a challenge...
...such is life...
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