autochthonic

tick tock tick tock. sleep knocks. i am so tired yet i do not wish to close the blinds to my eyes just yet. i suppose i should write. about what. i do not know. just write. and write. and write. ramble really. on and on and on and maybe something will come forth. fathom. i want to set my house on fire. i want to take two crates and fill them with my books. placing them on the green before it turns brown buried by white. and watch. as my house goes up in flames. perhaps i'll rest my ass on Faulkner for the show. i want an over-sized bean bag chair in the middle of  a moderately sized room with tall empty light brown walls. and. a stack of books haphazardly stacked along the side of one wall. i want to climb a mountain and rest my body on the curves of a grand grey boulder and feel the hard trace of it along my spine. i want to combine myself with this feeling and forever fold it in the frame of my mind as one. i do not feel at home. this house. falling apart. surrounded by so many things. clutter clashing chaotically without the beauty. "and because my hands are autochthonic/i can never wash them enough." autochthonic. originating where it is found. i fall in love only with poets. written or living. mirroring. awareness in whatever medium unveils the universe. yours. i want to lay on my back in the grass at the park in the dark and stare at the silhouettes of trees transversing the wall of stars. a canvas. painted by imagination alone. i want to listen to the world. vocal cords unnecessary. unwanted. unnatural. here. i want to listen to my own heart beat sync. and think. nothing else exists.