Play
I like to play.
With it.
And it likes to play with me.
......................................................................(Don't you?...)
And with its amassed cohorts and legions and myriad minions to bring to bear against I alone, still we fence and dance around each other, neither unable to manoeuvre to deliver the killing stroke; if ever we wanted. If ever we want.
The looks we share: that merge and fuse, polychrome. The thoughts we share, as one. One to one and one on one; one in one. And one is one.
********************************************************************************
But the feel is different than when with against another. It seems with it (you) there is no searching, only discovery. The fight we share against those not us is not the fight I share with it. With you now: we talk as we duel, as we did even before I entered the arena. Though I talk by listening.
Who last questioned who has the power and why? Why, we cannot answer. The other is the reason for the dance. And the hope that we can find a way into where we feel we want to be. To bite the hand that we know we need; we cannot bite, but still it lets us and still we do so, knowing it knows we know it knows. There is no bluff, only forgetfulness. Instant and recurring.
A hand that strokes a thousand heads. A thousand at a time, but one at a time as only one feels it. A thousand thousand strokes a second. Or more. We do not see the hand as we do not see the cold, but even together we do not see the cold.
My teeth are dice, jumbling in the mandible-jawed thought tumbler that not so often dries the article, finished. The result still in question even after the last throw.
This dream we share. We who never are together. In time nor space, though it might be that once you were whole and we are but genetic smithereens or a bad day at the office assuaged by the promises we promise ourselves.
****************************************************
Is that another game to play? We are all one and I am but a trigger-spot; a zone of reflection.
But these games. Cards and die and dance and duel and mime and speak and listen. These games we play because it is not what we do, it is how we play.
Unfinished.
With it.
And it likes to play with me.
......................................................................(Don't you?...)
And with its amassed cohorts and legions and myriad minions to bring to bear against I alone, still we fence and dance around each other, neither unable to manoeuvre to deliver the killing stroke; if ever we wanted. If ever we want.
The looks we share: that merge and fuse, polychrome. The thoughts we share, as one. One to one and one on one; one in one. And one is one.
********************************************************************************
But the feel is different than when with against another. It seems with it (you) there is no searching, only discovery. The fight we share against those not us is not the fight I share with it. With you now: we talk as we duel, as we did even before I entered the arena. Though I talk by listening.
Who last questioned who has the power and why? Why, we cannot answer. The other is the reason for the dance. And the hope that we can find a way into where we feel we want to be. To bite the hand that we know we need; we cannot bite, but still it lets us and still we do so, knowing it knows we know it knows. There is no bluff, only forgetfulness. Instant and recurring.
A hand that strokes a thousand heads. A thousand at a time, but one at a time as only one feels it. A thousand thousand strokes a second. Or more. We do not see the hand as we do not see the cold, but even together we do not see the cold.
My teeth are dice, jumbling in the mandible-jawed thought tumbler that not so often dries the article, finished. The result still in question even after the last throw.
This dream we share. We who never are together. In time nor space, though it might be that once you were whole and we are but genetic smithereens or a bad day at the office assuaged by the promises we promise ourselves.
****************************************************
Is that another game to play? We are all one and I am but a trigger-spot; a zone of reflection.
But these games. Cards and die and dance and duel and mime and speak and listen. These games we play because it is not what we do, it is how we play.
Unfinished.
posted by jonny at 12:08 AM
2 Comments:
The smartarse answer is that perhaps our perception of what is chance and what is not is not what is, but a misunderstanding and that perhaps the two are the same.
I do like favourable coincidences, personally.
I very much like the perennial story idea. I shall have to come back and be a bit more loquacious, maybe.
Jonny....
You've tickled my brain. I'm sure, not by coincidence. Just mere luck.
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