These days I see no reason to bandy about anymore, I feel words our like scythes slicing outwards and I fear to use them, because I know other’s scythes are looking for me as mine were blatantly attempting to shadow their own movements.
At a young age I seemed to decipher a pattern of events, one which denoted a lie rather than an efficacious way of monitoring things. I saw that the word Reality often meant what one wanted it to mean and that breaking through its feeble definition merely required breathing on Earth for one day and existing around others to see that it was a vapid nonsense to perpetuate.
I found myself a very animal, hairy, smelly if unwashed and full of himself to a degree previous explanations do not give reason for.
It burns as if to smoke acid to admit this , but it is a fiendish repertoire with which I’m familiar.
I want to reek of the mythic and invest it in every word and fiber of my bone. I also wish to never be so foolish as to believe in false Gods, and thus am sucked into a Greek type esplanade of emotion where everything I uphold is destroyed by what I convey through my actions.
Because I live as if God were dead, as we all do, and if he is, it isn’t conscionable.
I wish to never contrive to do anything. I wish to always spontaneously respond to events. This is deceptive to say, for it seems to imply I mean to not think, which is not the case. I wish to thinkingly roll into every situation without an previous anxiety brought on by foolish conceptions of “Reality”.
And days and days have brought nothing but more of this. As if some teacher of shadow was aping my steps and always giving lessons as I fumbled forward. And ghosts or ghost like things abound in my day to day life. Just last night i dreamed a labyrinth and in its conclusion I spoke to my son and he was quietly dripping blood red tears from his eyes. Rather than waking in a cold sweat, I awoke calmly, an initiate of grey recollections and odd night infused auguries. As I write this I recall the day a hawk’s shadow rode before me as I drove in my device toward town, it broke away to the music on the radio.
There is an odd stork like creature in an impromptu marsh brought on by winter floods that I and my son’s see as I drive them to school. There is a mystery about this unlikely creature in being where it is, which every morning, gives me an odd sense of Bulgakovishness which floods the day and makes it more positive.
I can do nothing but think of this creature as anything other than a preternatural prototype to all birds, an oddball genius of its ilk clinging against the most tenuous marsh provided by the crust of Earth. Today it was not there and the sense of Absence was like a large stone monument placed before my vision of the day. Its tone by the way was grey and elegant, patrician-esque.
How odd the voices we must speak in to say what must be said, to speak of a marsh bird we must invent terminologies, for we know nothing of marsh birds. To say things on the nature of what is obvious, we must refer heavily to tomes of men who said things densely about the obvious. Admittedly some things can’t be easily said, but things that can be, should be. Men waste time posturing and because of this there are cyclical repetitions in thought which should never have been. Because of this one will open books that were once aligned with ones thoughts, and see an enemy, and an embarrassing disclosure on your formative education.
I wake each day at 5 am. I make preposterous plans against the day, I concoct Martial approaches to mundane affairs, I imagine my responses to friends queries in a sense like they were of the stature of Oaths made on Delphic Mounts. And there is always a knowing of something undone, a thread left unsown, a weird omen of something more, everyone goes to the party but no one feels like I do when they are at the party, and if they do nothing is said of it. A grand paranoid idea permeates everything, though no one had an intent, all is filled with intention. And my brother told me I should write. There would come an end he suggested by his words, of this, of all, and this would be like an emetic, softening the way.
But the way remains as it was, and nothing is softened.
Meanwhile I struggle to try and find a way to make writing anything other than an quiet form of masturbation, something more than a shadowed pulse felt only by me, a night song sung by birds no one hears. I always thought wanting things would make them more achievable, and yet I scrape out a meaning from ancient texts of men and women who wanted what I want, and of them , there are only scraps left. An echoing library of ‘Was’s” and “Mights” lining out the invisible musculature of concern. Even history for me has taken on an edge of fiction, for trust is involved and I have little.
The night settles in at my home, my wife jangling dishes in the kitchen, my son’s voices murmuring, an accent of the moon and the clouded shadow, all of it. I’ve drunk too much, but this was always a possibility, or rather I expected It was, and wasn’t afraid.
Often the weight and measure of family life is ported towards an goal which we are stricken by often, and suddenly. No one speaks vehemently on the subject of what ails them, they tend to be more voluble on what does not. Wasting permanent time on nonsense. And so when we have too much to drink we imply a heavier burden on ourselves rather than reflecting on our past achievements, we burden ourselves with a “perhaps” failure. Drunken remembrance is convenient, as all of it is, but forgetting takes a waxen art of chance which I’ve never known.
At 4 am, I wake slightly to take my stomach medicine.
At 5:45 I roll around knowing that I must read, shit, and look feverishly at the internet.
If certainty were an acceptable thing I’d laud us. But it is not. Thus I question every act of a species which is geared toward a sense of certainty.
Failure is always comfortable, failure always reassures itself, failure always requires a defense.
Worries over pains and Diets consume me, Concern for my children and thoughts on the Present World and the Future create a quilted robe around my cerebral cortex. In thinking of the cerebral cortex I Googled a diagram of the functions of the Cerebral Cortex, doing so I was whisked away and in my mind , a cold calculated Drs. voice repeated back the latinate names in a staccato, each psyllable a bullet rattling in a tin can, it assailed my sense of Spirit to see my mind so mapped, and succinctly labeled. Worst still, that It was labeled by Humans, a race yet to explain any First Cause. A race who’s only claim to fame is to make inferences from datum collected over aching millennia by randomized acts and a sense of something, the Something always different but always replicated from the bones of the previous Something.
If only in synthesis we created an overflow from what was within but not out of some sense of post modernist fixed angst, we could circumscribe the Known, rather than groping in ebon night with ineffectual hands towards a mystery which need not be.