Nothing is important

i am;

a surrealist swimming
in the sea of illusions
my words are so honest.
my heart.
my only living organ; still intact.
i babble, lucid. i make sense,
i understand—
but i'm so confused.
lost in a world of perception.
it felt so good, so good to talk
like only that moment mattered
only it existed.
"but it's okay now"
"it's okay... now"
it's alright
everything
every single thing...
it's alright.
like i'm tripping; delusional but realistic
clarity weaving in and out of focus.
taunting.
but i understand—or do i?
every single thing!
...it'll be alright
cow heart and banana;
it'll be alright.
today i stand, born again
i fly like the crow


i fly so, so high.

So they give it a word, and the word is...

I had a wonderful yoga practice today. And I'm inexplicably happy...

I know why the skies all cry...

Om.

I figured I would fix up my phone case like I intended to all those months ago. I'm so happy, guys. I want everyone to be happy; joy should be contagious.

Om shanti shanti shanti. Peace, peace, peace.

Laments of a Span

Another frozen sun ascends through the dense air. It casts long reflections of blocked out buildings onto the catatonic river beneath me. No sharp wind disturbs me on this winter morning. Snow laces the river banks as well as my railing, like confectioners' sugar on dark chocolate cake. Mornings like these make me see the beauty of life—of the nature only I witness. I would sigh if I could.

Yet amid this natural beauty, I see no one. Such a pristine landscape should not be marred with people. Only I stand strong, straddling this river bed, providing passage to anyone who wishes it. I am functional, I am sturdy, I am repaired when needed. My black metallic railing rusts at the seams. My cobblestone back erodes with each passing season. My infrastructure predates the roads I connect. But I am useful when people come across me.

I have seen many people come and go, but none on this morning. Perhaps the biting cold keeps them inside. Perhaps the morbid branches of withering trees which obscure the landscape with veils of scattered black deter them; I do not blame the warm blooded for their reluctance. I would stay inside too, if I could.

Nothing awaits them out here anyway, only the outer walls of old, crumbling buildings painted in browns and grays, and a river—though possessing the grandeur of a stream—with calm, yet polluted waters, that meanders through the city. People do not have to stand atop me to see it. Any spot will do. The reflected elegance is not exclusive to my back. Yet no one takes advantage of this opportunity. No one bothers to see the view.

And though the chill dives into the very core of my being and I may lament over my loneliness, I love this winter solitude. In utter selfishness, so no one else can, this moment and this pastel scenery I will steal.

Major Arcana: Card 0

I stare at the ominous desk in front of me. Seventy-eight cards stare back. Amidst the blinding glare of the cold winter sun, one captures my mortified attention. Zero, the Fool. Thrown down like the rest, the Fool still floats to the surface to haunt me.

I am zero. I am the Fool, the beginning, the faith, and the folly. These cards decide my life, with their embellished borders and smooth surfaces; like my fate, slippery and meretricious. The Fool-the only word my eyes can read in the sea of possibility-shows the only qualities I see in myself. Yet nothing about me embodies the Fool. I lack spontaneity; I can't accept my choices; I don't let go of worries and fears.

I let the cards govern my life. The unconditional trust of the Fool I see in myself. "This card mocks the questioner," the spread guide should say. Below him I see, slightly buried, the card of despair; the IX of Swords. This card, shrouded by shadows, stabs at the questioner's deepest fears. I find myself fearing my future.

The rest of the cards—the Star, the Empress, the VII of Cups—become obscured by the sun. They possess too much goodness and light for me to even consider them. No, I am the Fool, the nothing, the zero. Naive and trusting, I walk myself off the cliff of indecision; push myself into the abyss of relinquished control. I pass on my responsibility to inanimate objects printed in China. They decide my life choices, not I. I submit to their will. I no longer possess any control of my life.

Yet, save for these occasional lapses in certainty, I feel no guilt for my inaction or diversion. These cards are my veil to the world; I see in them what I want to see. The frenzied delirium of blind devotion fades, and the sounds of the outside world trickle into my consciousness. But fear still lingers, fear that one day I will be responsible for my decaying future.