Willow
Autumn leaves. Memory in a labyrinth of dust. It’s past 2 a.m., and I still feel alive. I can move objects—out of boredom. Sometimes I pass right through them. I should string words together, gather them into a small notebook. Explain that forgotten poetics. But it would be foolish—whiny, even. No one reads, especially after midnight.
At first, you get used to it. You distill something resembling coffee. I could suggest a carb-rich diet. But it’s not that simple. All we have is dirty water. A few roots to chew on if it’s cold. And a vast attic somewhere.
I remember reading instructions on how to build a homemade bomb. But it was stupid. Then boring. There were no materials—even at the markets, everything was rotten. They threw away the useless stuff. Gave nothing away. Though those annoying “free for you” signs still clung on.
Now, I couldn’t die. Due to some strange quirk of quantum physics. Everything moved slowly. You’d collect old cans you might smuggle into certain places. They demanded a GPS. A stable connection to scan the barcode. Or you’d just go with a soul trafficker. They’d split the final price into three shares, and you’d touch something called money—something laughably small. We wouldn’t call this social critique, since by then society itself had become a joke.
“What do you eat?”
“A bit of salt.”
“Isn’t it absurd to eat your own money?”
“I don’t know—something’s got to be eaten.”
“Here, chew these willow roots.”
“Thanks, but willow isn’t edible.”
“It wasn’t… until recently.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“You can stick your head in a rented potato sack and chew these roots while breathing in the scent of fries fried in black, foamy oil.”
Now I get it. A virtual reality, stylish yet tinged with gritty, physical realism.
It’s become a new drug.
Be patient. I’m inviting you to the edge of logic—esoteric realism.
Does such a thing exist?
Of course. It was invented during the First Great Migration.
Where are we now? I stopped following the circus barely fifteen years ago.
We’re on wave two hundred twenty-five. Some still make it to Jamaica, scavenge old things, and come back.
Does Jamaica still exist?
No—sorry, I meant the Bahamas.
Are you headed somewhere specific?
I’ve crossed half the country. Things are still fucked wherever you go.
Did they ever fix the electricity issue?
You still remember that? Are you kidding me?
Haha. I like to joke in the afternoons. You can’t always have a real conversation with a stranger.
We’re not such strangers.
True. Let’s watch the sunset. There are still a few roots left to chew.
To, @wakeupkitty
La imagen la he creado con un promt, en la plataforma MidJourney.
Se agradece un voto para su testigo más joven @wakucat .
https://auth.steem.fans/sign/account-witness-vote?witness=wakucat&approve=1
A friend is what we are if we chew willow together and whatch the sunset.. You from the island, me through the window if it's in the garden too cold, or who knows I still travel. Not by car or train but by foot... still wearing the old shoes which aren't even mine. Do I need new ones? It would be great I find some for free. If they last just a few weeks it's good enough.
Are we acquintances, strangers or friends? When are we close enough to be friends, family perhaps?
I coloured the old canvases after work, the black and gold absorbed all colours and I wonder why. The black was dry. I painted it red with a big brush, a big layer of red spread, no pouring paint.
Quess, what I did? You will call me crazy and I missed the best moment as I poured paint on another old canvas with holes. For a moment the yellow looked great. Next I added green. No mixed colours in a beker but just one by one poured on the canvas.
If it turns out ugly I will keep it or use the canvas again. It's getting heavy.
Can we fry willow? Everything can be eaten at least once.
I picked up the leaves, it's fall if I wait longer there's no way to use them as stamps.
♥️🍀
cc @gertu
@wakeupkitty
For me, half a century ago we crossed the line of friendship and we're now a family. Root friends. Always, despite everything, we can chat and entertain ourselves using art as a way of life and a way of life. It's a beautiful way to spend sad, hateful, painful days, but days, and turn them into joy or wander around imitating it.
Distance is just a mental condition. We're so close, just a click away on the screen. We'll always be attentive. It's wonderful to see the autumn leaves. (Oh, a good title for a novel) The Autumn Leaves.
I liked the leaves; red is a good color to express moods. It represents strength, creativity, and yet it's still art. Let's keep creating.