Until the Eye Opens
writings from blind faith
by
writing sample
Growing up in my house. I have feelings about it, but no words. Rebellion calcified around my bones—a second skeleton demanding I walk my way, not your way.
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I am either/or, always. Scheming to get out of where I am, obsessed with trying to change how I feel about where I am.
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...as I crumble, I feel my heart opening out to the joy from something other than me and I feel love towards this other something. How dangerous is this?
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I understand somewhat, why I am here in Elk Creek. I understand why I bought the place—because it felt right, from in my gut to out through the top of my head in a geyser of desire. The bedrock. I am alone and unconnected bobbing and swaying in swells of hills rolling up into a towering and jagged coast.
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Tall, red roses eat blood, drip tissue. They come in bunches on Valentines’ Day, at funerals, weddings, anniversaries, the events we feel. Roses eat blood.
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Taking it all as it comes. Is it possible to bring you forth? Can you be summoned? I’m worn thin, translucent. I feel the ferns of your existence softy uncurl within me; I see the slow seed, seeking the sun.
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I close my eyes and look inward down a million years or so and feel you there in that eternity between my right and left ribs.