👇🏿 ain’t got no time for that? press play for the radical radio recording ✨
there is a time, many moons ago. is it? no, a few moons ago, that i am in danger. it is a dangerous time then: precariously balancing on a thin floss of string. real or imagined, perhaps i am floating, there in the abyss of nothing-ness. nothing but a mess, of me.
there is a time, yes moons ago, when i am in danger. the danger is real. the danger is me. the danger is really me. the ways my thoughts spin and twist and turn for my un-becoming. the ways that the floss threatens to twist at my ankles and hang me, as i dangle from above, and drown into the abysmal black-ness, this black mess, of me.
there is a time, yes. when i am in danger, in danger from myself. it’s awhile ago now, moons ago, many yerster-yore’s have passed since this time. and yet, this time is still here, in this present moment as i continue to collect, gather, and grow beyond it.
i dangle. my feet twist turn. i ache. i yearn. i drown. these thoughts that spin and twirl me, cast me as shadow and i plunge once again into the waters below. or is that above? i stand now, amidst this watery place, drowning in the sea of my own sorrow. i am a sorrowful wretch. the tears come. the tears fall and fly in my face. the tears, they continue to fill this place; my sorrowful, drowning place.
i am in danger. i do not say these words to myself. i dare not say these words to my face, for what if it are true and i take myself seriously and continue on in the manner of them? for what if then? for what if i allow myself the weight of the words that swirl in my head and roam, wrack free, in my body? who am i then? for what, is the point, of this living existence? this being pummelled, and drown, and ripped, and strung up-down, and twisted, and drown, and abhorred by this vacuum: a black whole of my un-becoming.
for who would i let myself be-come if i were to fall, face first, into the thoughts that twist the twine around my spine? if i acknowledge my danger, will i collapse, body-long, into its greasy, mould hands? if i give it that space, a slight nod to its presence, how ever will i… survive… this?
i am in danger. it’s a dubious time. a treacherous time. a time when i am lit, head-to-toe, with fire, a molten lava of a thing: molting skin from bone; tissue, with no pressure, slides to toes.
i am in danger. and yet, i look just fine. to those of you who see me here, in the grocery store; at the gas station; in line for a latte. for those of you with looking eyes that see through the goggles of you, i look just fine. there are clothes on my body. they are clean. there is a wallet in my hand. keys dangle from a finger, still attached to my hand. i look just fine. i make eye contact and give a brief smile. my spine is straight, enough. i look just fine. the hair is combed, as one has been trained to do: comb your hair, put on your pretty face before going out. there. don’t you feel better?
i look just fine. to those of you, eager-less to see the real of me. i look just fine.
and on the inside…
on the inside…
i am in danger.
i am in danger.
i am in danger.
i look just fine.
and, i am in danger.
i am, in danger.