A renegade's diary entry in a debris field by Martins Deep
390 words
Issue 4 (Spring 2024)
to be this lost is not a journey to call a journey. or is it. i mean, i'm here & south of nowhere— two points illustrating distance, like a colon, one dot in the blur, it almost never existed. but
hope claims it's there, condemns me into dreaming behind a visor— a child confronted with the fears of a grown man. man, running out of wonder, it triggers his oxygen alarm. but i shut my eyes, in false surrender to fate, still dreaming where, the probability of being intercepted by a ufo on patrol is one-ninth, or one-third of running into god floating by navelless, he looks on me from bird's-eye view, a soldier ant on a driftwood in the middle of the sea. then, with compassion offers me a compass to hold on to with the grip of my newborn i never watched grow under leaden skies, to escape being my father. & therefore, for my absence, the consequence of being wide-eyed elsewhere equals the cost of wonder as loss, i go wandering through the five stages of grief. alone. where this body in its equation is a comet that never vapourizes its ice. i.e, survival with the condition of living with the coldness of regret. regret as an endless penance without any promise of reparation.
i pray, but but where am i under any skies. fuck. this is space— the scene of a market place on mute. where stars could sing but because they have no songbirds to teach them, they know very little to do than shine & impress astrologers. & oh, for eyes that has seen it all, disillusionment is the curse. haven't or have, though, wonder has found rest in the past, & i'm tracing its trail to tread it in reverse. homesick. listening for your pulse, wishing my essence into the fur of your current pet to lay in your arms again, a lost cause thirsty for what we had.
& there will be no mistletoe kisses, nor beyond it. because i'm twenty something light years later than our second date at habil's, & i'm still very far away, trying to find that speck of dust my proximity turns blue like the presence of base on litmus to tell it is nowhere but the home i must return to so left behind, one bastard son of longing.