Sea Floor Fever, or The Note that Came With the Stone

I'm dying but that's not

to say what you think

it says. I've crossed the

river of myself many, many times

before and wandered to the

shore, broken and drenched and

full of the fever of dying

dreams. Each time was a

kind of ritual mask, drying off the beat of

my newly born wings, to

try again to fly, some

people never want to fly away

I guess. They have no

use for their wings, but why

do you think we have

them? They mean something. I

think it has to do

with purpose and by that

I mean with meaning and

by that I mean being,

being free, being unencumbered, being

creative in the air we

breathe. I don't know. It

sounds silly, but you know

words don't know everything. Sometimes

I wish I could speak

in moments of wind or

through the mouths of certain shimmering leaves

or in the tiniest colors

inside the arms of an invisible

flower. Instead I rustle in

my street clothes and bang on

your door with my loud thought patterns,

but nothing much seems to

happen, except every now and

then I catch a glimpse

of myself reflected in the

trees or maybe the stars, if I'm lucky,

and I think maybe it

will be alright to be

something else. But here is what's

dear to me, too. It's

where I've discovered so many

beautiful faces and touched part

of the world that amazes

me. Anyway I'm aware, okay,

I get it, but I

don't think it's all that wrong to be

sad. I mean ring a

bell if it makes you

feel  any better, but I'm here

to tell you, I'll be

busy bringing music home with all of my good

friends playing along. Because I can. Because

I do. Your not so secret adventurer.