Been and done.
Note: I'm not even certain that I will read this when it's done. This is catharsis and madness. I'm doing this simply to see if anyone accidentally subscribed to this and whether or not they'll pay attention. Humor me, bitches.
The Never and the End
It came and went as if there was something meaningless staring through the slots of a profound portrait. This unknown listlessness buried itself in the empty cavity where my soul once sat and gossiped with the ether. In the end, the promise of respite and understanding were little more than scraps of ash and vomit on the cobblestone but at least some of the ride saw me on top. Thus, in this state of disrepair and abject confusion, I merely sat and wandered into the service entrance for our back alley psychological abortions.
The night was all the regular players plus a fresh face or two. As always there were large mammals and medium mammals, hairy mammals and loud mammals, beasts and birds, stars and sky, and the moon as the eternal reminder that a little reflected sunlight can make the insufferable day worthwhile. Time and alcohol raced to see which could get the first kill, but knowing that time wasn't real and alcohol an ally, the fear of what might be and what had already passed went unrealized. The night simply was with all its noise and beauty wrapped into a little cylinder for more convenient consumption. Walls screamed and passed away, the air burned and baked, and the water would take the life out of a drowning man, but this was how the elders found their place. Without my youth, I needed a new land to settle and suckle upon, a country for wise fools, an estate for the betrayers of the past, a manner of speaking that let it all go.
Satisfaction came in waves, short bursts that roared and receded, leaving behind a blank slate no matter how many fortifications were placed to save the errant structures of this little play. The night was quickly coming to a close, another night where I wouldn't see the sunrise, but really just another night. Standing, I was a body made of mistakes. For all of those decisions, the worst was to stop living in the margins. When I asked for freedom, the choice was gone. Though subsistence was without the merit of stability, its flaws were exactly what was most worthwhile. It was the knowing that nothing was important above and nothing terrifying below. This was the wisdom the methuselah forgot, the forbidden scripture that passed like a whisper on wisps of smoke trailing out of the mountain man's camp, pushed on by the singing from the gypsy caravan, harnessed by the red man's pipe. Now we are without song, tied to homes and follies. Much has been gained, but it's what came and went that makes it all the harder to revel. Where went the beauty of the weird that left us satisfied and foul, smooth and ostracized, greasy and pleased? The real question comes out with blood and spit: Which died more, me or the dream?
The night was all the regular players plus a fresh face or two. As always there were large mammals and medium mammals, hairy mammals and loud mammals, beasts and birds, stars and sky, and the moon as the eternal reminder that a little reflected sunlight can make the insufferable day worthwhile. Time and alcohol raced to see which could get the first kill, but knowing that time wasn't real and alcohol an ally, the fear of what might be and what had already passed went unrealized. The night simply was with all its noise and beauty wrapped into a little cylinder for more convenient consumption. Walls screamed and passed away, the air burned and baked, and the water would take the life out of a drowning man, but this was how the elders found their place. Without my youth, I needed a new land to settle and suckle upon, a country for wise fools, an estate for the betrayers of the past, a manner of speaking that let it all go.
Satisfaction came in waves, short bursts that roared and receded, leaving behind a blank slate no matter how many fortifications were placed to save the errant structures of this little play. The night was quickly coming to a close, another night where I wouldn't see the sunrise, but really just another night. Standing, I was a body made of mistakes. For all of those decisions, the worst was to stop living in the margins. When I asked for freedom, the choice was gone. Though subsistence was without the merit of stability, its flaws were exactly what was most worthwhile. It was the knowing that nothing was important above and nothing terrifying below. This was the wisdom the methuselah forgot, the forbidden scripture that passed like a whisper on wisps of smoke trailing out of the mountain man's camp, pushed on by the singing from the gypsy caravan, harnessed by the red man's pipe. Now we are without song, tied to homes and follies. Much has been gained, but it's what came and went that makes it all the harder to revel. Where went the beauty of the weird that left us satisfied and foul, smooth and ostracized, greasy and pleased? The real question comes out with blood and spit: Which died more, me or the dream?
posted by BISHOP LES FEMUR @ 1:01 PM
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