soul spigot

to be able to cry at work.

to do what you came there to do with tears on your cheeks.

to look at the one who comes to your work but has a work of there own, somewhere else, where you might go when you are not at yours and to say "there is a strange wall of water between us, i can see it. can you? can you hear me through it? what do you feel, think, know of it? is there one on your side?"

how am i supposed to keep believing in anything.

are those who can see just supposed to wait? until it appears literal for everyone else? because no one will listen before then. and at least then you can say well i have thought about this, considered it from all angles with the time i had waiting, imagined it imbedded and ripping through realities surface rather than staying tidy, contained on a screen. so now that is has arrived, i have some ideas.

maybe for the seers and the knowers and the feelers all you can do with your time is learn, repeat muscle movements and pull threads of thought between points they never were before until they tunnels dug and fortified as strong those that the thought and the action have become unnecessary to differentiate. 

it is difficult for me to believe that the possibilities of the future will not become, since they already are, tools of manipulation. and what is it to hear speculation and warning from someone doing nothing about it. 

all the ease and pleasure and leisure and empowerment proposed and promised by technology of apparatus means nothing if it is turned against something. no it does not mean nothing. it means control. it means fate orchestrated by man. 

i am in a glum, tired, pessimistic mood. and i cannot get the tears to flow. i resent it. 

regularly crying for the world, for what it means to exist is cathartic, healthy, cleansing, generative. 

when i am trying to be some kind of figure that a job asks me to be, i get extremely paranoid. as if everyone can see through me. but it is becoming clear that they do not have to look through because i am wearing it; my weariness, my wariness, my sense of futility, my sadness, they layer up to keep the raw unprotected self safe from everyone else's projections and exhaustion and willful delusion and soft soft raw raw formless selves. 

last night, in the moments of absolute suspension, one foot in this and one in another other reality -which appear to belong only to me but i am curious why and how it may not - the image maker of my mind behind my eyes showed a kind of tube with a flared, funnel-like end. the whole thing was metal and green and a layer was peeling away. snake skin. the object maybe but also maybe not was my soul or a soul or the idea of souls. something about giving the skin, sharing the skin, peeling of a layer of epidermal process from the soul. 

it was a vision of change and of growth but what a strange way for a soul to shape.