Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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It’s what’s wanted. To be parallel. To strive for limitless possibility together. To disrupt nature and Her deleterious claims that that desire sits highborne and companionship, unwashed. Let there be great rage at laws restricting passion! Fuck compromise and the lies that everything is great, fine, and how are you? No one cares. They’re craven in their need for protection against this contemptible virus of unsettlement. Two decades spun out like spider filament connecting loss and regret with yearning and earnestness, trying to catch a nurture that doesn’t struggle, but instead lies prone and awaits such aching hunger as if designed to sate. Quite the plea. Discovered instead are unfillable cups of water at the ends of desert treks. That parallel dream – quite a notion as each line of a web intersects to capture – is impossible art. Yet the prayer for such delicate tribute lingers with naive belief that between those who reach for the sun the same way grows intangible connection. Bending this way and that, crooked, damaged, erring yet always fighting for sky, invisible connections dance like the spark between dendrite and axon. What’s life but a gap filled with currents? The hustle of day and slumber of night awash in unseen sparks leaping from him over here to her over there; is not that too nature? No, no, no. That’s simply youth, as every new twist in the ascent widens the spaces between all, connections failing as age atrophies and faith erodes. To continue is madness, but so be it. A sky without a dream wouldn’t draw eyes heavenward and growth would have no height.


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