The mind-machine, the pink trash hunched within domed bone, glistens and waits. Thirstily sucking into its core the darkest and dirtiest of saccharine and opaque sludges, the organ throbs, churning out endless cycles of enraged babble. Meanwhile, nurturing the deepest gulps of simmering affections, and unrelenting in its intensity, the brain is generous. The complexity of its re-assemblage frequently exceeds my expectations. I swallow a throaty, salty happiness. Baffled by the cloaked fiddlings of my renegade pilot, I endure the mind’s maneuverings in a state of primitive arousal.
Now, Earthly stagnation assumes a horrific visage. As one labors to traverse the endless permafrost landscapes, so must one sacrifice the deeper savoring of localized flavors and nuances. The stationary organism enjoys sustained exposure to its cradle, while the life-form in motion never inherits the soil beneath its shuffling limbs. This creature is the neglected bastard of a dozen wrong wombs. Without a geographically-cemented identity, it is forced in compensation to orchestrate the wild flavorings of its own sought projection, denied guidance or tweaking from a source-crotch. “Home” becomes internalized, within the weather-beaten body. Locomotion and reactive expression become the exclusive source of stability; a tiny oasis of comfort and contentment.
If one dares stop, the rotten arms will continue flailing upwards, tearing through decrepit soil, as they envelop your stride with flapping clutches. These hurdles greedily twist themselves around your body, colonizing your bare torso. A waiting gaggle of paranoid simians hurl their obscenities and their foulest of accusations at all abnormalities or even the benign temporary visitor, demanding adherence to their hand-me-down traditions. Eat their food and sing their songs, for if you refuse, you will bear the burden of their distrust. Standardization is their pacifier, and your juvenile nods are a prerequisite for their embrace. So we keep on moving, while appearing to dance their rudimentary waddle, and secretly celebrate our own confusion.