You need to count the cracks.
You need to keep track of them- where they came from, how big they’re getting, which parts they’re touching.
But how do you do it? How do you create a population census for cracks you never knew were there? Those borne and conceived in the darkest corners, those that never registered upon your waking self. Those that slink around the corners, like illegitimate daughters you never knew existed- that showed up at your doorstep, without you knowing when or how they came into existence. Cracks. Like undetected tumours, like growing leakages behind the couch, like dirty old perverts waiting in the shadows.
You need to count the cracks, but you can’t. You really can’t. So you wait for them to arrive, to really arrive. You wait for something to blow, to break and then you try to figure out which crack did it.
Was it the crack of your parents’ broken relationship? The crack of unrequited love? The crack of your own broken heart, of consumerist society, corruption, poverty, the crack of your heart not being as ready as your body? the Gen X crack, the Indigo crack, the crack of Ascension, Living Death, dying gurus, dying pets, dying friendships, the crack of loveless lives, your ailing mother, karma or the lack thereof?
Or maybe it’s a crack that was always there. Bigger than all the others collectively, bigger than you, bigger than the universe, than life itself; a dark magic that possesses you more than anyone or anything ever could.
Lick, Roll, Burn.
In our little pot world, we can safely remove our happy faces, the pretend masks that sometimes we have on for so long it’s who we think we are.
It’s time to return to my concrete jungle now, but I’ll be back.
Every little earthquake,
Every little heartbreak,
Going unheard,
Every little landslide,
Catch it in my hand,
I won’t say a word.
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