“Whatever It Is”

You broke my heart (And the windows on my car) What was all that for? Now you you've started a holy war I've got scars on my arms I might love them a little more I guess you are what you are After all—you're a star I'm bat shit crazy, I'm Blind, so blind and now I'm Hiding in a life I decided I was mine I tried to find you Tried to find the answer Tried to find the time, And now I'm fighting suicide against denial —I still really love your smile I had to know—and so I had to ask; both the ocean, and The Instagram Algorithm—about Dillon Francis—and, to my luck and great dispar, was swiftly answered. Now I could crawl back into my cave of obscurity and begin the elemental essentials to gather and burn all that was left of everything I had written about the the man himself; needing of course to steer clear of nothing now but love—or a lack thereof, as it were. Now I understood that the feelings and emotions tied up in this man were indeed true, beyond real in the sense that I couldn't hold back tears, but with some gentle motion I could sway them into music; needing to shed my skin and escape my nightmarish surroundings, I would need more than a prayer—the universe had been calling me to fast; now I would answer in the only way I could, the fresh and awestruck pain of heartbreak I had knowingly caused myself, the only strain to conquer. I loved him. The running was over with, and the hiding was done for— I had backed myself into a corner; a comfortable wall to curl up in non existence, meanwhile, nothing—because if I could figure that If I did not see it for myself or could not otherwise randomly fathom to imagine, it did not exist, or it could not be. Who are you, To evoke emotion A notation of focus, Awoke in the moment to know, Vote for a hope, Or a rope, just to— —hangglide. What's two hands, What's two fists look like to you? What's two feet, what's two wrists to you—? What's two lips, two blue eyes; In an instant What's to listen to the the tune of you again? “Please Text Back” What is this? Another emotion, Another world we opened, A parallel dimension, Just beside the hell we live in— Exists all of this I'd put it into Ableton, if I was able to; The way you make me move, And what I feel for you— Appealing, if you're real, down to the roots And reel-to-real I feel so stupid— She'll—be everything I asked for him She is—the one I called for hoping She was—my dream inside a dream once; Now, digging my own grave up Just to prove my luck, or something So, to us, it's only justice, undone On the walk to Eden, It was all of us; I reap what I've sown; Nothing comes of nothing Give to get, And live to eat, The answer's “hungry”, If you're asking But no one's asking, ‘And Dillon Francis's is handsome, He had to have known that—‘ I sat at the alter, my ocean And read to her, poetry I wonder for nothing, And want even less, no discussions— Percussion in repercussions, Patterns of claps and hats, happen to manage the panic; Perhaps if I laughed a little, Or loved a little, I'd have sung more loudly as they hung me, From the bungalow windowsill; It's silly how I'd kill myself again for never listening And never listening And never listening —we never kissed, but always met at intersections, when needed; Break bread for breakfast, or brunch, with the Goddess and her Demons Never had I saw or wanted a flying saucer— until I saw two of them, off in the distance With no one on them, But God, I'm honest and stopped it all at once, Just to turn on and tune in, and now I'm the April Fool— It was just an illusion; Another simplistic collision of infinite What was your name again? I'll have to ask my ex— —husband… Cause one time, someone loved me. As it turned out, I held more feelings for the man than I had previously thought, or had motionlessly been in absolute denial of for quite some time; there wasn't another option or subject of distraction—I had been stuck on Dillon Francis, or at least the thought of him, even with the startling lack thereof. I needed to love, but it seemed to be in short supply, at least, for me, no matter where I went or what I did there. Still, while The Instagram Algorithm beckoned me to believe one thing, my intuition conditioned me to comprehend another—there was something deeper within myself and greater outwardly looming over the prénsense of this innate attraction—and though it had all started innocently, it had cascaded and begun to collapse into a avalanche of unhandled business and forgotten circumstances— I was shaken and needed to be restrung in some way that would hold me together, until the easy way out became the hard way; perhaps if I could project into my reality what it was that nature had foretold, I could extend my being beyond that of which seemed to be an end. At least it had been done again, in the severance of the flow of one love, there had to come another—as it's been done in generations through every genre time and time before whichever one this was, mankind had something down to an exact science for once; to withdraw the essence of love from the source of which it comes, leaving one only damaged enough to murmur or hum the would-be some-part, of some-song—if not to be sung, at least strummed out, or at the very least, written as record. Now, though I had lost nearly all ambition, I was entirely filled with enough neglect to become the apathetic, dark and untouchable alchemist I always was—reality back in touch. The final judgement was: I loved Dillon as much as I had loved Sonny, but in another way entirely—so much so, that overall, his happiness above anything to happen was what I wanted—and though I felt I had been ‘Kayla Lauren'd' once more, there was a deeper sense of doubt that with enough creativity, would bring about a world of its own—as if the world that had been created in the infinite “if” of Dillon Francis was large enough by itself to consume an idle mind with even the slightest of combustion; His eyes would drive me wild—and all that I dared to remember of the time we would spend together, is myself becoming lost in them. ‘They are green sometimes'. I loved the grey streaking in his beard, reminding me of what I was, rather than what I had become in the midsts of it—my soul just as ancient as all the love it was made of—and now I had done it not once, but always; decided I could love anything about any one and multiply that into an infinite, undying and unconditional love—which it already was. I'm sorry, God; Or whoever's watching All I wanted was love With the one who would want me; Now I'm a ghost, although something is haunting me Wanted my glass house, but can't throw a rock in it Off in a rocket ship; What was the cost of it? Nod off on a trip, dripping lips on the window A kiss, just an instant to lick up a hit of the acid I missed wishing just as simplisticly To live again I'd end it if, The reason weren't so stupid It's not you, I've just been used too much to do this Overruled: This never happened So I had to laugh I had to laugh I had to laugh I had to laugh I had to love him, only Cause I had to love myself, for a moment The door was open, I went walking in, Then closed it; Only now I'm here alone— At least I own it And I only wanted Love From someone who wanted To love me And I only wanted a hug; But I guess I kind of got it If you want, you know I'll drop it, like the rock fell from my pocket I forgot which one it was I fell in love with, After all, I'm only nothing “It was nothing” It was fun It was another father, son and brother; Oh, no wonder— Life is so wonderful Falling in love with the digital runoff Of someone with all of it Everything I ever wanted Everything I was, and wasn't Just to front the cost, Just never good enough To come of One, again All I wanted was love From the one who wanted to love me; Now all I got is— A closet full of skeletons, A cause of death, And a hot topic, If this is Martyrdom ‘This is what happens when you dare to dream, then stop believing in it; you become caught between worlds in the catastrophic maelstrom between the world of the living, and the shattered reality you once called your dream' now I wanted nothing more than a clean bed and a hot shower; a place to call home—I was so far stretched out beyond my comfort zone that again the thought of an instant means to an end became again, a pressing and dire need— I had only scratched the surface here and there and never had begun to break the ice—but anything I had said or done now may as well have been inscribed in stone, everything was temporary, but just fully so, it was also permanent. The looming answer was truly, that either way, I was right—either the slip in my stream of consciousness with Dillon had vanished as he began to keep the company of another more presently—just as in my early premonitions with Sonny had foretold of Kayla Lauren not too long before I would become aware of her—that my dream of Dillon in the presiding weeks accompanied by a dazzling readhead, the inspiration for “Chelsea, Chelsea!” Whispered a daunting truth; that as I suspected, anything or anyone I cared to love would be taken from me promptly; and though in the months since the literal tripping and falling into love with such a character, I had tirelessly worked to remove the romanticism and passion that had pent up within, pushing down and toiling away with the notion of a reality where, after all, my King to be had been all along, Dillon Francis. Though with a vital and vivid sense of intuition I had seen it all, I presumed it was nothing more than a flash of whimsical and innocent fantasy, admirable to those with an eye for love; a spark for my creation, which had been diminished—or so I thought. I couldn't help but feel a fool, and baffled myself that indeed, I was in tears—because of Dillon Francis. After nearly months of tearless apathy, I had begun to think myself immune to emotion or feeling—surrounded by a slew of reflections and past companions, I had begun to again lose myself to the motion of too much carelessness, my own needs neglected from lack of finances—and seemingly excommunicated from American Society; I began to fall violently out of love with Sonny, as the universe spun me into a web where I was the fly, and the spider tying me was the spitting image of the damningly handsome once-Apple of my eye; not that I had actually lost any of the feeling for him—but, that the feeling itself had changed dramatically from a writhing passion, to a fury tinged with the blood and sweat of sacrifice in exchange for nothing, and the bitterness of genetic competition—Kayla Lauren no longer taking the brunt of my anger, but falling into irrelevance, Sonny himself becoming the poster child for everything I stood to dismiss, in music, and in general— if I were to convict that I hated him, it would only mean stagnancy, in that I still hated myself; however, strikingly, it was not so—i had begun to love myself quite so, that what I hated was the toxic world where all the men I so admired and desired thrived. Sifting through slides of the lives I wanted mine to mimick, a smile was summoned from under the rock I lived in; hiding from any of the repercussions I may have built to arrive just in time to dull my shine if I became too rampantly outward with my intentions—which, by now, were simple, at best—“at best” being limited again, only by what I could see and know. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.