cheesecow

i wake up in a singular utopia and there is no one but myself. Only the coagulated lumps of noise of people and dogs of cats living and talking and making nonsensical movements with the words they weave into a pattern so fine, so fitting; no sight. There is an eerie ringing. i start walking one way, and everything is bland and the same, the drone of all drowning out the memories of myself (or is it the other way around?) and that drives me so i keep walking, and time dies and there is only the thought of my last taken step. So i turn. But then things stop, and i walk off into a wall of black that sores the back of the eyes till the black implodes. But i keep walking, and that Voice channels me to a distinctly random location yet now it is harder because my legs don’t exist. i know they don't, nor any other part of my body, but i am there. And then the noises of all things, my people?, my only known faith, my God?, turns to cheering. And then there is a feeling of renewal, as if i have been suffocated in a box less than nothing all my life and as it slowly unfolds
it opens. All that is learned in forever is lost and restored with the simplicity of feeling. And suddenly, everything changes again and I see a body, enraptured in the blanket and home and familiarity of a single long bubble; the only movements are the shades of dark blue and purple strung with yellow and tinges of green red orange, dancing, writhing. As they make their ways above the boy's throbbing chest the colors unite in harmony to the steady beat of the slowing voices and there is a face. A face that seems so distant so it uniquely exists in the eye, and it closes my eyes, and the boy wakes.

This is how I feel when I write