Silence, or thereabouts.

I am turning into a fly. The less I talk, the more eyes I spout, compounding vision, seeing into and through, mostly turned within.

I grow bigger ears too. Again, mostly turned within. (which reminds me of a question I ask often and forget to find answers for: how is it our ears hear all without, but not the swish of blood, the beat of heart, the groan of bones, the sparking of nerves?)

I want to be a lone fly. Hairy and loathsome and left alone to watch and contemplate. Be able to consumer anything, have no needs and utterly and incomparably adaptive to any situation and circumstance. Heightened to every nuance of every moment. Dodging everything, like hummingbird in perfect buzzing stillness things whizzing by that I see with compound precision, see at, see through, tiny sidestep, resume, see away. In perfect balance. Hairy loathsome fly alone and quite happy. 

Death in detachment

There is a certain death in detachment. And it is a raging storm I see within, when at points at the bottom of the pit, I hear the shrieking love of holding on to pain, to that deep feeling, that thrill of the bleed, the high of the rage, and right when the shriek must inhale to resume, I see the quiet looming old ghost of detachment, cool, contemplating with smile, no smirk, eyes twinkling, telling me, ah you silly girl, you know I am what you seek. The burn of alcohol, the cool of ice. One rich and hot, the other wise and insipid. I hold on to the fire but the grip loosens. And that knowledge, that I must die to be happy. It is quite the trade off.