I am a mistake, an aberration, a blunder of consequence, yet here I am.
I am vexed by all the others,intentionally put here to stumble over me,to point out the error of our ways; all ways, my ways, the highways.
Its always my fault. I should have seen it coming. I drift through room
after room,housed in wasteful nonchalance,almost plastic- hard to see - an
amiable enough accessory,gracing any window, warming up any coffee table.I am a misprint, a misspelled word, another overused ellipsis, yet here I am.
I speak in short sentences. Ones I make carefully from the days which I use to
form hours, painted with years,using all the wrong colors, the wrong
strokes, from a brush specifically intended for scenery not portraits.
(still life is abstract).I am a spill, a mishap, chemistry gone woefully awry, yet I am here.
Breathing your air,sharing your food, filling my space as if we were all
merely droplets of water, the meniscus of our present selves, holding each
of us together, apart, defining us, allowing us to freeze, to run or coagulate
which ever is right or wrong ,understandable,perplexing or costs the least.Once it was all sublime but now we dream in vapor, no longer liquid or solid,
past or present, but a state of mindlessness where our specious worlds
become cumulus clouds cradled in an unsettling blue sky, as we
spray paint apologies like sunlight on the walls we leave behind.
This is when we will truly come to know
the beauty of randomness,
the pleasures of circumstance,
the draw toward disorder,
and the cause of the accident we have all become.
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