There are times where the domains of your life assemble - pulled together by some apparently divine thread that you hope to have some infinite purpose. The trouble when microscoping these specifics is that they may not be as entirely coherent, or necessary, or extraordinary, as you might have originally hoped.
What if they are ordinary, or inappropriate?
It is possible, and possibly easy, to view perfection in imperfection. Appreciating that it is an imperfection is the first step, and feels like a stone pushing its way out of your eye socket to fall to the ground and roll away. It's gritty, and dirty, and unfortunately true.
Being aware of what you want or need makes this pixelated world even smaller.
When the outside world seems smaller, so too must the inside world.
Memories and nostalgia appeal to the wearisome minds of defeat and misplaced hope; disappointment reigns, and hope is found in misread, or misled opportunities and experiences. You can build new kingdoms from scratch with the seeds of hope, desperation, and futility, but these rarely bloom or bear any of the fruit you might have deluded yourself into believing you could harvest.
It is when you realise that the past is past and that the present or future are non-comparable that these walls erode, carefully, but destructively.
A barren wasteland is visible, where you must stand alone, and contemplate. The realisation that really, ultimately, you have to do this; you have to stand alone.
The world, sucked in. A moment of clarity where everything kind of...imploded.
"He would stare at empty chairs, think of the ghosts that once sat there, the ghosts who broke his heart. All the ghosts that broke my heart, the ghosts that broke his heart, all the ghosts that broke my heart, the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts, the ghosts that broke my heart before I met you.
Lover, please, do not fall to your knees, it’s not like I believe in everlasting love".
Saturday, 17 October 2009
Thursday, 1 October 2009
An epoch of repetition.
The trouble with knowing is knowing, and that knowledge is all powerful. This knowledge is venomous and consuming, and all too destroying.
Ashtray mouths and smoky words, billowing between bodies; merging, forming new spouts of knowledge flowing in an endless upward spiral direction to heavenly minds. Nietzsche claimed that an omniscient being could calculate each twist, turn and ricochet of a waterfall, and so too words are calculable. The calculus of mind and body, bridged while masked in a devious guise of modern nature. Beautiful, really.
A thin veneer polishes every body; a glazing of ice, and cold enough. The sun and its hesitant heat, the rapture of lust, the demise of one's love, and the rise of the self.
People are too often entirely predictable; in speech, prose, and behaviour. If you dare to spectate, albeit a spectral role, there are very few surprises. Is that so shocking?
Our hydrated bodies nullify with age, a callous exterior with the pretence of warmth: these frozen flames burn within each incident of life, and in death.
Sex. The inevitable honeytrap, that secures security. Do the obsessed obsess or simply seize opportunity? Was it that the natural fall into love that Mr Holfax had known; of belonging, of having, was not normal of people? Is there a usual demeanour to follow within the harsh boundaries and pathways to the cavernous domains of relationships? Would anyone ever explain the ordinary route of attachment? There was indeed a struggle; a tug of war between reservation and sheer frustration of expected conduct against the violent yells of solitude within one's own skin. The need for the soul, that is, the essence of a person, to flee its own sanctum.
The possibility of exploration and liberation from the confines that conception and labour had cruelly imposed.
His eyes were empty and black, with the glimmer of warmth in the brown that dared reveal a vulnerability in the occasional light. Were they black, or brown? A terrible concoction of the two had occurred. Inseparable. Even he could no longer tell, despite the hours of his life spent staring only at his eyes; reaching with his stare with horrific intensity for something.
The perfume, the flesh, and the night. Only segments of experience remain, yet the memories linger, and a stale scent overpowers the senses, as the man drifts away into that very breeze of nostalgia.
"There's lots of good fish in the sea...maybe...but the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if you're not mackerel or herring yourself, you are likely to find very few good fish in the sea".
Ashtray mouths and smoky words, billowing between bodies; merging, forming new spouts of knowledge flowing in an endless upward spiral direction to heavenly minds. Nietzsche claimed that an omniscient being could calculate each twist, turn and ricochet of a waterfall, and so too words are calculable. The calculus of mind and body, bridged while masked in a devious guise of modern nature. Beautiful, really.
A thin veneer polishes every body; a glazing of ice, and cold enough. The sun and its hesitant heat, the rapture of lust, the demise of one's love, and the rise of the self.
People are too often entirely predictable; in speech, prose, and behaviour. If you dare to spectate, albeit a spectral role, there are very few surprises. Is that so shocking?
Our hydrated bodies nullify with age, a callous exterior with the pretence of warmth: these frozen flames burn within each incident of life, and in death.
Sex. The inevitable honeytrap, that secures security. Do the obsessed obsess or simply seize opportunity? Was it that the natural fall into love that Mr Holfax had known; of belonging, of having, was not normal of people? Is there a usual demeanour to follow within the harsh boundaries and pathways to the cavernous domains of relationships? Would anyone ever explain the ordinary route of attachment? There was indeed a struggle; a tug of war between reservation and sheer frustration of expected conduct against the violent yells of solitude within one's own skin. The need for the soul, that is, the essence of a person, to flee its own sanctum.
The possibility of exploration and liberation from the confines that conception and labour had cruelly imposed.
His eyes were empty and black, with the glimmer of warmth in the brown that dared reveal a vulnerability in the occasional light. Were they black, or brown? A terrible concoction of the two had occurred. Inseparable. Even he could no longer tell, despite the hours of his life spent staring only at his eyes; reaching with his stare with horrific intensity for something.
The perfume, the flesh, and the night. Only segments of experience remain, yet the memories linger, and a stale scent overpowers the senses, as the man drifts away into that very breeze of nostalgia.
"There's lots of good fish in the sea...maybe...but the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if you're not mackerel or herring yourself, you are likely to find very few good fish in the sea".
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