The Things Unborn

Often I regret the things I suppress. Unknowingly, they are pushed out of the frame by a force I dare not control and I lay there on the ground, suffering the fall from its shove where I observe the blood trail leading to my hands. It is an amnesiac kind of suffering. It is acting surprised at the summary of the horror novel written by my hand. Erased, too. The pen becomes the knife, never the other way around. 

I regret to exist in a place where justice is but a concept that has never materialized; where anarchy is the norm. In here, I run freely through the fields, with ragged clothes and the smile of an infant. The daydream pastures are not uniform, but always free of debris and evil flora that could hurt the naked foot. No unexpected mounds or pits hidden under the tall blades of innocent greenery. The crimson trail all clear to see. No houses, no cars, no animals, no road to use as reference. An immense field of nothing and everything at once, not private nor publicly owned. Not owned at all, save for my presence. And I regret it being such a crime scene. Defiled by thought. Unthought and unborn, so much of it that I manifest the visions in between the green and the grey sky. I will not describe them, should they dare to come to life.

In here, I don't care about who I am. A place with no mirrors is the closest to the realm of Forms; I am wanted there. Beware of the man who kills things. I don't care about being free. Incarcerate me, I beg to no one. I myself would have done so if these many vines around me could care to strengthen their ties when I join them for the single act of peace where I could leave it all to be unobserved at once, become what I ought to use as destination for these things I've never done or said. Reach the foregone conclusion of the make in me, trusting what I ache to put in place, any place at all, and where I lie is where it isn't. Despite the trees in the horizon, I see no future built of wood. Cleverness would escape me. The idea of making tools out of resources around me is merely a foreign ploy. Heresy and malignity, a sorcery ostentatious enough to ban any further machinations. Even if a log were to be sharp enough to cut its brothers down, the blood would spill out of my fingers as I work the thing, the splinters carving themselves into every pore they could find, as I would be a hole and a home to these broken pieces, and I would desist. And there would go another two or three things I unborn.