The Tearing Of Breathing Holes

Fear of being trapped, needing breathing holes, losing ownership over free will. I once dreamt I was a rat fleeing an unknown force in a pipe that kept getting tighter and tighter. I willed myself awake when I couldn't move ahead. When you can will yourself out of dreams you can will yourself out of conscious but mentally clouded situations. Force a paradigm shift by relaxing your grip; un-furrow your brow till the illusion crumbles, or change it to a more reassuring form. The exit switch is easy to spot from an elevated perspective. Satellites rain down but are not reigned upon. Dr. Bloodmoney continues transmission.

Walls crumble before whirlwind sighs: so develop an iron lung or the mind becomes a ball in an endless game of pong. Burst to freedom through suspension of disbelief, or inhabit a more interesting and livable belief. The itch will never own the finger despite bouts of temporary slavery. Simple pressures can be redeemed through metaphoric osmosis: lies so persistent they force themselves true. Questions that change the answers, like: Can sand flee the desert through a whirlwind? Or do sandstorms only spread the desert? Are they refugee Aztec disease-harbringers, or do they uncover gardens below? Bit players are stars of unseen epics.

Time eases memory or erases it. Best to keep building no matter the foundation. Self-construction versus self-destruction can at least create an equilibrium. The truth expands through the knots in your stomach. The more it entwines the freer you are. When I was at my sickest I had a fever dream that the bookcases were caving in, my possessions were no longer my own and a needle-tipped missile (originally a meteor) was pointed at my heart. Sickness changes the premise so that your actions are correct, but entirely in the wrong context. To awake from a fever dream requires recognition of the fever and the dream; even or especially when healthy and awake.

Music liquify my insides. Return this sand to the desert. I feel a mirage coming on. Learn to hum to the insect buzz. Learn to walk in self-contained wombs. Construct your own 'pataphysical mecha. The deeper the feeling the more meaning can be squeezed from the twitch of its throat. A flood or a sandstorm; illusion of choice? Illusion is choice. A song should last forever - no more breathing holes, all air. A prolonged sigh of relief can become a whirlwind. The premise drops and the stage returns to floor. Sometimes bad memories are just half-remembered fever dreams. Instead of wishing to forget, learn to remember differently. The tearing of breathing holes or the terror of breathing holes.