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| Putting fears into prose. by mrs. johnson 02/10/2003, 1:56am PST | ||||
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| Yes, that's right: more shit from me. Not sure if its done. Any comments are welcome. Here or Acopalips@hotmail.com.
Sure, sure. It may be difficult or even impossible to capture any moment in time with pure thought. Countless atoms, all in their own ineffable locations. All with sensitive vectors and perspective. Individually useless, collectively powerful; all with sightless sight. The walls throb kindly as they look upon your head. What sort of identity will you proclaim? Can you lie to eternity? With a slow ache, childhood returns. It is brief and cruel, for all children are cruel. Their gaze crushes beetles and their laughter makes saints cry. It is a frail victory that can truly stand over the opponent of a child; who, invariably, is a child as well. There can be no escape from the misunderstanding of birth. The parents that have reared you have quietly sunk their view of life into your hairless brow. A babe in the hands of your mother, you have been shown that your life is miraculous. Not once did you glance around and see the fools that believe that they are gifts from heaven. Just like you. As you open your eyes, you witness a rebirth of your world. Your fists clench and unclench as you relearn your obligations. With reddened eyes, you step into the world and begin to judge. Every face you see is immortal. Every face contains infinite possibilities and infinite memory. You can’t care. It is not pleasant or feasible. Ignoring the ignorance of the masses, you tread to your vehicle, scuffing the salted ground with your shoes. There was a time in your youth where you knew the answers. After the years of conviction, you became unsure. Now you don’t care. Why? Because you can’t enjoy the answers? Selfishness pushes outwards and you feel the pressure mounting at your throbbing temples. Once you reach for the steering wheel, you forget your sins. You let the surrounding speakers whisk you away to calm beaches and soft lovers. You smile politely and continue to die. Very slowly, you continue to expire. With every manmade second, you come closer to your demise, but that’s alright with you. Life on this earth is not what you want, and you do what you do because the road has been paved for you. Your pleasures are few and your troubles are many, but you do it all for some vague hope. You can never quite discover what that hope is, but death is too fearsome to comprehend, so you trudge on. You fall into obsession easily. You wait for some activity to find you and you latch onto it like a leech onto supple skin. You climb rocks or dance or even try tantric sex. Sure, you fail, but in those failures lie countless hours of feigned pleasure. Something to do. Anything to escape idleness, in which certain thoughts. You can’t let them float into your skull. You are afraid of their finality as you are afraid of death’s. Somewhere inside of you, the limit lies, waiting to be called. You know well that when you find that limit or when it finds you, there will be nothing left. The unknown face of it keeps you alive. Somewhere deep down, you can still remember the pleasures of rebellion and pure recreation. You can still almost recreate a place where morals were blurry instructions for life, and laws were barely conscious, not yet intruding into your joy. You forget all this when you dress in the morning. Wearing, without question, impractical uncomfortable clothing and a functionless tie. You’ve stopped questioning. It’s fine, you think as you exit your vehicle. You walk into the office where your soul is chained, and sit down inside your elected jail. A box with one opening and a table. Upon this table lie peach colored papers and files. All of them smell of money. All of them begging your pardon. You pick up your pen and begin. You mark here and there, you scribble down empty words. You get coffee, you get water, and you push your hand through your short hair. You loved your long hair. Why didn’t you keep it? Your eyes water in the bright lights, and you take your lunch. You eat and talk politely, with people who fear their limit even more than you. People who might actually enjoy nights of television and days of labor. Men and women who do not realize that their life has been designed for them; that they are in a niche that was long ago cleaned, emptied and created solely for their efficiency. What for has the happiness of the masses been sacrificed? the mrs. |
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Putting fears into prose. by 02/10/2003, 1:56am PST  Reading your prose is like swimming in concrete. -nt- by 02/10/2003, 6:43am PST I think I'm insulted. I'm not sure. n/T NT by 02/10/2003, 9:13pm PST Re: I think I'm insulted. I'm not sure. n/T by 02/11/2003, 2:06am PST Oh by 02/11/2003, 5:15pm PST .....what the fuck? NT by 02/10/2003, 7:14am PST |
