The Open Matt Project

Break the Mold

My life seems more and more to be less something I live than something that I crash against, as a tidal effect where I play both surf and coast. Is there any wonder in my fumbling where this is concerned? There's me, freezing under a newspaper and wet, my eyelids sticking as I wake in a cold morning courtesy of Fort Tryon park. There I am, standing on a chair and toasting friends for witnessing my capricious avoidance of death. See me write, poems to her, rage to him, confusion to myself, and blogs to everyone.

And time after time the changes come to me with the same familiar trappings, the same theme music and signs and heartbeat, without any one time being the same thing. I could never have seen this coming. Never. Me, the one who shines perception unshielded and terribly uncontrolled and cannot help but to see, me. Blind as the sum collection of my blinks, sorted to cover any trace of the impending.

It's happening again, you know. As sure as the sunrise, another sight that can be seen but cannot be looked at. As sure as shitting and as reliable. As sure as the next time my heart shoves my fingers into pounding out another one of these saturnine missives.