The thread holding me together grows thin once more. Tiring the job of the sewist, in daily strife forever in attempt to end the job which without contemplation prostrates itself before continuity in perpetual errand to be continued as I… as I tirelessly diminish my satisfaction a second at a time while staring at a screen playing images that rampage by without any meaning. This serenade with missing tones could not easier tell the story unfolding behind my heart’s pensive nature, for I a puppet of its desires aimlessly wander, desolate and in a type of clandestine irate negation of self and being. What am I if I deny my existence?
I prostrate myself henceforth before the wily desires of will that bereft of owner rode rampant through my being taking hence what little ability there was to comprehend. Inexplicably I see the span of this life as all encompassing, all at once riding a dark nightmare horse with flames at its hooves where its stride rampages through field or thought. In its onyx eyes the center ablaze with a fire that once in my heart, now stolen permanently, rides on ebony gallop to a horizon filled with charcoal nights. In this night, the ebony figure with silk tapestry on its neck bathed in stolen tears from this host, with midnight braids forming the names of all those who have had this visitor come by their window on a dark night; lit only with the fiery prints and gaze of this mysterious equivocator of death in silence’s triumphant scream.
Take me! Take me again, the job is not done. I am unfulfilled. As I ruminate of the desire that may have overtaken my fears and life someday I cannot seem to fathom the illuminating brink whence death became the light and the light dimmed into the simmer like state you find at dusk. I cannot find the fear to appropriate the moment into what another human person with similar vicissitudes may incorporate thus violating the state of solace and regretful shame and in doing so arise; succulent the taste of victory once savoured thoroughly, but it is this the point in between when one must tend to the wounded, give the orders for the sacrificial few to save the plural element… what a picture to paint in a canvas where all the space, already taken by the death and decay preceding this moment is but the capitulation never perceived -now implored.
I fall. There is a dismay that is usurped by the glory of satisfaction, but only in the most trivial of forms. Concave the hall and hollow the space behind all paintings in this section of my life. For what is straight in this fissure leading to the end of all that is known? To see, and not be understood, is as doing and not having a result. The finality of all things being equal in that all must be quantifiably accounted for I do not dare dispute. My quarrel, if there should be one, is with the serene nature of all the zombies that seemingly dreaming pass me by without a muse to corrupt their senses into the absolute truth that surrounds them. This is an undeniable truth, a truth we are born into and inevitable die into, the truth that death is only a moment away. The oblivious nature of the herded cattle is as enigmatic as the mischievous ways they carry themselves.
Sacrosanct the will, idea, belief, and imaginative, however brief, nature of continuation. How quaint, to place oneself in a pedestal of ultimate freedom, persuant of life eternal in death. To aspire to become what in life could not be accomplished as many before you have done. Right, regurgitating comes to mind! Alas, life ends and with it the pursuit of all things albeit ideas are the dangerous savage that has waged wars upon humanity, rid cities through genocide of my ancestors, and all in the righteous pursuit of a great ideal of continuity. What does it all mean if in death we all have nothing and in life we work hard to achieve death, thus nothing in itself.
