books start to grow green

sun shines through library windows and books start to grow green. leaves sprout out like moths from breaks in sentences. a new presence of twigs crack already worn spines. i am taking an art class this summer. going to try and move some knotted muscles. going to see if they are able enough or have enough substance to cover the cracks in my skin as well as a life outside of that covering. maybe it doesn't matter. maybe all i need is a patch and then i can be something other than one definition. but it is not just an aid that i wish for, it is a contribution. one can live a life exhausting the possibilities of desire but one cannot contribute to the world, that great windy darkness, without a need. we do not do math because we are good at it. no one is good at math. we do math because we need to do math. nothing else satisfies some untouchable in us. tormented without, this is why we seek torment within. scratches are appearing on the page amidst the budding vines. a labyrinth of symbols and psychology. symbols of psychology. i might be coming out of all of this muck, scratching limp wings against the rough of cocoon, in order (as if it were the purpose and direction all along) to realize that the muck and the scratching were the places i find myself most conformable. if anything, i can say with absolute certainty that i despise lightness. lightness carries you away, floating with the air and the dancing smoke of the Now world. and even that smoke that you cling to when lightness is all that you have, even that is an act to try and become heavy again. i can never be satisfied without the amazing weight of necessity. how ever much my back might seize and twist around this density, wings scratched by the scratching of the page, moments where all you can do is hold your head in your hands pressing against the cage of your scull for comfort telling yourself it never ends it just never ends. how ever much, it is how i am made. and the sun shines on my making and i feel warm.