Wednesday, December 4, 2013


Sometimes the bread we buy is just dust in disguise. This also applies to apples and pudding and non-edibles, such as bandages and potted plants. I prefer my bread, apples, pudding, bandages, and potted plants to be upfront with me, but I know that for the time being they can't. We want the disguise and the lies, and these items aim to please. There is pleasure in the suffocation. Stamp out what can't coexist with the fantasy. They listen; we don't. Somewhere along the way we've forgotten that the feast is still figuring itself out. We consume what is unknowingly half-baked. We save room for dessert, but forget to leave a trail of breadcrumbs back home. We stumble. We somehow figure out the key and the lock and enter our empty living rooms half dead and full.

There are cells and volcanic ash in every bite we take. We are part of the universe, thriving inside burnt meteorite particles also present in the dust we partake. This will worsen our allergies unless we suppress.

An appetite for what is already gone is nothing new. But for the few who choose to chew and swallow their manna, they will want for nothing more than the stars at their feet and the ocean in their eyes.

Heaven is nothing more than what's placed on our plate.

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