"I am very well accustomed to contorting my body with every molecule, those that move me. Those in the air, floating by twisting me and I am very well accustomed to contorting my body. Molecules, having hands, bend me. You inventors, while knowing creation was not yours, and your cunning admirers meditated on listening and praising and ever-doubting all that is beyond your words, to you I speak thus: I will bring the crisp sky to a moan, every part of me, and I’d climb so high it would make me shake. Have you forgotten by now? I can fly. You were never the inventor of truth, coward, for I am above you, for I can fly."
Scoochathustra caresses the tall grass. His gliding palms above, his walking feet. His memory given to surrender, his heart given to shattering. No towns around our traveller. Only fields, forward to the fields where it exists.
"Enough, pace. Walking forever now it seems."
He breathes in the sun and the blue, the clouds rolling into his inhale, the light ones, detached from themselves. His feet lift off the ground. It’s about time today.
He watches his tears fall, obedient suffering, submitting to gravity. He, unlike his tears, is not interested in obeying. Thus speaks, here, forever it speaks thus:
he glides along, this open field better than memories the air swims with him, as the sea that carries us to murder us just as every poem’s writ he and his drowning, sharing the death of the earth
"Is it you, peace? Is it us, are we together — are we what makes this possible? Or are you floating too slow for my pace? Did I flee you again, when I saw another battle to lose? Off in the distance, and I just could not wait to die."
"But forever I want you. While I elevate I plummet. As cyclical falling, and you’re always surprised when you’ve been thrown into your teeth by that merciless truth. That gravity you know so well, you crowding aesthetes without taste, you keep talking about what you’re in love with."
He cries out against the wind.
"Don’t speak to me of your labor and unity in labor! Don’t speak to me of your oppression and your beast tyrants — they’re just another surviving face in the crowd! You worship them when you call them by name! Don’t tell me you know them when you’ve forgotten yourself! Don’t tell me you suffocate when you wake in the morning by the air they made too thin for you! Don’t call the inventors of truth liars the moment you’ve been met by their burdensome denial. That moment you lost your breath, that is life, not the eclipse of romancia nor the end of fact. The eternal remains, and with it, impermanence, the only fact to stand. It was the loss of your nature, your spirit, your self-knowing, when you let them steal your breath. Dishonor! It is you keeping the breath from your lungs! You condemn your hopes, climbing trees to dodge the flood — stand your ground! The seas will never cease to overflow, stand your ground. By now…you’re just regurgitating memories of loss. By now you’ve forgotten. I know this, every time you don’t die for the Earth."
Scoochathustra slows and breathes, remembering his balance before his fall. And then, against his safety, he aims upward, and pushes himself too hard. As if straining would break him from his skin; nevertheless, he remains.
"These shapes are fears when they come around. They’re like oxygen that won’t fit into your lungs. The kind that sinks into your mouth and laughs at your insides."
"But the world, inside, great soul, vast, expanding. For I have oceans inside of me, enough to drown the world."
"But speak plainly! Night air! Speak true in the day and stop pretending to be night. If these days are so lonely, it must be that…verily, I say, no one flies anymore. Anon should I whimper and make streams, thus does one put their head between their legs as a child that doesn’t understand the world."
Scoochathustra, in his upward flight, looks down, past his elevated feet. A mass of wandering geese below. The kind that never leave the ground. That never intended to fly. Squawking like they’ve something say, but instead they squawk. Only in dreams, were they ever true animals.
"You are not birds. I can see you plainly. I hear no song when you speak. When you go on about what you don’t have. You are drudgery. You are. Your art doesn’t care about anything other than itself. That is nothing. You belong in a town, the places where they worship nothing. There they call it money."
"But I know better than the beasts in the cities and the hunters in the forest. I know better than the hiders, the creepers, the survivors —they tighten their ties in the mornings and beat their wives at night. I know better than the wind — I move faster and stay longer. I know better I know as, simply, we must know better. We are the first ones to ever betray everything as it is. Cyclical nothing, maintaining nothing. This process, will end. This course, these events, will end. And in our dying, our spirits, our everything, will return to their original forms, the relieving universal truth: stardust. And we’ll give up, floating and grasping for each other until our evolution reminds us of our movement, and our unification moves beyond old romancia. But rather, it just is."
"And we’ll separate again. Splitting apart, something new will be created. That is the nature of origin, to continue originally. Thus would we be creators and share existence, beyond the sad property and dead concepts of kingdoms. Seems hard to forget them yet, we’ve no apocalypse. Their haunting of land continues to betray the truth of nature. But I won’t deny my rage, the craving inside of me. As beauty is a must. Like violence. Embrace them both for their perfect sense. Kill for beauty, for the threat of its destruction is worth dying for. To return and recreate. To submit, only, to the universe."
Scoochathustra, too high, struggles to breathe. He has not unlearned his own breath yet.
"We are all gods, don’t you know. I swear it. In the next thousand years, when we’ve forgotten our imperfection, outgrowing the separation in our words. And when you see me next, thank me, for I’ve been loving you all this time. Your fear and confusion are perfect to me. You survivor. We’re the same in our liberation. Brutalizers, they keep going on about their strength. Fucking cowards, we should close their mouths for them."
murder is for lovers reinvent everything or end
"The ground had better shatter us this time. I love the sky, it pushes me away, but she’s loved me more than any earth-dweller calling themselves an immovable rock could ever. They don’t know how to share their greatness, their best is for tumbling. But when we die, we’ll have swallowed the earth, true love, and a greatness will continue on without us. By then. I promise."
Thus Dies Scoochathustra