Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Feeling strangely grey. Translucent grey. Globular too. Like soot diffused into molten wax, now cold. But watery. Softer. The contents of a hollow container; a container too understated too exist. An Adipose wraith; less charming, less present.
Hammered by circumstances; I built the forge. Beset by Kipling's mutinous men; soul set to auto-immune. Endless stumbling skirmishes whirling seditiously.
The truth was not the answer. It may not even be the beginning of the answer. Glib is neither.
Occasionally reaching up to touch the weak facsimile of life, copied on dying cartridge, shaken to stir, to start. Dim, scattered ink dissolved by touch; in memory it was always blank. Yet. An ember somewhere. An ember scarce remembered. Distantly deep den of darkness. A homœopath's scintilla.
Spinning the batteries of hope one last time. The only warmth the friction of bread-mould crystals on the contacts.
Well, maybe next time. We'll always have—there is no always; there never has been.
---
Because that's how reading sidebars clashing with the confident, cocky, chaotic cacophony of youth made me feel. Perhaps, where did it all go wrong? Simply, where did it all go?
Beautiful and unique snowflakes are crushed into the pack, drowning mangled, marred by grit, scarred by salt, an ever-weakening, -thinning quixotic slick of treachery, fit only to retain the cruel disdain of humans—detritus padding—to linger unwanted for a distorted temporary age, swamped by the new young or ever vanishing, to be forgotten far longer than they'll ever be remembered, lost for so long that snow itself is a surprise.
If only "you are not a beautiful and unique snowflake" were true.
Anyhoo,
PS. Yes, I am publishing this rather than leave it as yet another draft in the forlorn hope (what other sort is there?) that the utter Typepadishness will embarrass me into posting more to bump it down the page.
Hammered by circumstances; I built the forge. Beset by Kipling's mutinous men; soul set to auto-immune. Endless stumbling skirmishes whirling seditiously.
The truth was not the answer. It may not even be the beginning of the answer. Glib is neither.
Occasionally reaching up to touch the weak facsimile of life, copied on dying cartridge, shaken to stir, to start. Dim, scattered ink dissolved by touch; in memory it was always blank. Yet. An ember somewhere. An ember scarce remembered. Distantly deep den of darkness. A homœopath's scintilla.
Spinning the batteries of hope one last time. The only warmth the friction of bread-mould crystals on the contacts.
Well, maybe next time. We'll always have—there is no always; there never has been.
---
Because that's how reading sidebars clashing with the confident, cocky, chaotic cacophony of youth made me feel. Perhaps, where did it all go wrong? Simply, where did it all go?
Beautiful and unique snowflakes are crushed into the pack, drowning mangled, marred by grit, scarred by salt, an ever-weakening, -thinning quixotic slick of treachery, fit only to retain the cruel disdain of humans—detritus padding—to linger unwanted for a distorted temporary age, swamped by the new young or ever vanishing, to be forgotten far longer than they'll ever be remembered, lost for so long that snow itself is a surprise.
If only "you are not a beautiful and unique snowflake" were true.
Anyhoo,
PS. Yes, I am publishing this rather than leave it as yet another draft in the forlorn hope (what other sort is there?) that the utter Typepadishness will embarrass me into posting more to bump it down the page.
