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It wasn't until that cloudy day in September that things changed for us. Cold, red with windburn, her hands peered from her winter coat. This dense air came unexpected, for the sun was strong just a day earlier. My gaze detached from her shivering grasps, only to discover dark, sullen eyes. They screamed, of an unknown agony. For years her claim to my heart lay dormant, but today we witness a metamorphosis. The tormenting winds relaxed, my skin grew thick. That cloudy day in September, when everything changed, I was warmed by hope. A hope to subdue all that ails.
Last night I watched an amazing artist at work. He conducted his symphony with militant precision. Behind him an army, moving at his will in recreation, out to rebuild his vision. He played along, and he sang, like any good general would, for their failure is his. But all who step onto the field do so in belief, and with glorious victory he will shine. Shine like bright eyes. So beautifully it all entered me. I stood and watched, and it made me glow. But to hear the weapons in battle was to stand with them on the front line.
From the depths of the earth came a chilling sound. Resonating, penetrating, all with feet to soil felt the shockwaves. A therapeutic scream in attempt to preserve any sanity I previously held. No other solutions exist for me now. Without this release I feel I may implode. Never before have I felt such pain, anger, confusion…hatred. It was all so foreign and I was lost, with no one to ask for directions. No one spoke my tongue and the frustration began to stack up to unknown heights. I filled up my lungs and screamed, evicting that which aimed to kill.
I feel that it is a rarity that words can wholly express the true lunacy of life on this planet. As it seems a thread of paradox weaves our world, and with each year that passes the confusion seems to grow and gain intensity, like the churning winds of an imminent snowstorm. The drifts gain magnitude and blur the consistency from our vision. All logical lifestyles, all imaginable belief systems, anything that you could possibly base your life on is wrapped in contradiction. Building self confidence in this unstable world may be all that separates the strong from the weak.
I confess, I did it. Okay, okay, its my fault. This one is totally your fault. I love you so much. That's wonderful but I don't think I can say that word right now. You bitch! How could you? You are so Immature. You have beautiful eyes. That dress looks wonderful on you. That perfume is making me nauseous. No, you are great in bed. I promise. You are very smart. How fucking dumb can you be. Sorry work let out late tonight. Where is my dinner? You don't care about me at all. I would do anything for you.
Here I stand, with tunnel vision, staring at the sea. Natures untamed beauty dances before me, and a ruin creeps at my back. I stand beside a noble savage, in a time long before devastation's arrival. Together we witness the same spectacle. A blue monster of both beauty and rage, constantly attacking it's shore, only to surrender and attack again. To have sensual unison is to have a time machine, and to escape the stresses of our modern world. But realization that 180 degrees is all that separates an ancient vision from man's destruction makes shards of a fantastical dream.
Over the past few days I have been performing an experiment. My brain is in a test tube and I'm saturating it with multiple solutions. It has sopped all it can, leaving remnants to spill down the drain. The final test is do or die, no second chances. Can I squeeze out all I put in, through the tip of my pencil. Will that which was left behind prove fatal. For four years now I have been working on my process, but all previous hypothesis have led me astray. This chemist can only hope that in trying success will come.
All I now have to hold onto is the story of our meeting. It was ever so random, wasn't it? Unsuspectingly I rode towards nothingness, deep in thought, relishing my freedom. It seems that in life it is just those types of backdrops that bring about the most wonderful and unexpected diversions from the path. One single gust of wind initiated the madness. I jumped with fright when the leaves rustled, spurring my horse down a path to change. That field where you sat, I should have never trespassed, but it now seems that fate meant to lead me there.
Airion, deep within the boundaries of Fillmore, the most mysterious of all forests in the Eastern Neck, suddenly stops mid stride and points his nose to the heavens. Certainly this vile community of trees and darkness had an abundance of rank smells, but this one had legs. He had met it earlier and it now seemed to flank him. A sense of ambush weighed on his soul. His sheath currently hung empty at his side. Had this land not been so bereft of natural light, the mighty blade Ardwill would have glistened as brightly as the third moon of Silnox.
The sudden stirring of the wind frightened me to tears. How pitiful I am. The wind always stirs, and I always cry. What terrible end would become of me if I stood in the face of a true evil. And my frailty runs deeper still. The rain pouring from my eyes not only moistens cheek, but dissolves all protection from my flesh. I am left naked, decomposing before my own cloudy eyes. Yes, to weep incessantly is disheartening, but being alone in this windy town, with no one to wipe away my tears, is the true root to my anguish.
As morning broke on another day, I stepped outside, in order to taste her crisp air. Since my eyes had last witnessed her, a transformation occurred. Outside my front door, a river ran, a flowing stream of molten lava. My pupils shrank and my heart skipped. The trees above were ablaze and the inferno had dropped like napalm to the earth below. The wind blew and the flames spurted high into the air. I remember wishing that I too could glow as radiantly as the embers of that firestorm. Over night, nature had given birth to yet another glorious autumn.
There is this one road that I always take to class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. For months now I have been trekking up that hill, and it seems that almost without fail, just as I walk past the bushes to the west of the Sparks Building, I am allowed to take a few steps blindly. For those few seconds I can imagine that I am far from reality, in a remote rainforest somewhere in Brazil, or Costa Rica. You see, in those bushes lies a great gathering. A meeting of birds, chirping back and forth, in a massive social gathering.
The injection traveled for miles throughout, fingers and toes lose feeling. The reptile falls to the floor. The stomach, now unhappy with its internal home. The lungs, fill not with air but that eating elixir. The muscles, deflect skin. Tonight I bathe in a pit of snakes. I smell an end, but taste relief. I soon will have freedom from the hated that follow. One Enemy remains. The black heart. A roadblock, delaying the venom's race to the brain. I have fallen once again, and this love will complete the job. A death inside must reflect with cold, blue skin.
This is the soundtrack of my life. Twenty two years of rage will now be expelled. At my side in this assault, the only friend that has never failed me: the music of a hidden generation. My dreams have come true, finally a chance to show myself just what love and compassion can accomplish. A flex of vocal chords and I spill out, filling the room with everything that I have built. I peel back my skin for inspection. I'm now naked and on display. I hooked my vein to this microphone, and when I scream I infect the world.
I have written in cursive ever since they taught me. I often think that this superficial characteristic is one of few that has gone unchanged in my life thus far. To reminisce on just four years past is to see growth in accelerated form. Mainly, the young sapling of confidence, who now stretches out of sight. Through my continuous venture of self discovery, I am periodically struck with unforeseen delight, for the present encourages a fruitful future. I now know that with each new experience, with each new slice of information that I am feed, I will only become stronger.
My most recent trip to the unconscious, a tour of strange lands never seen with open eye. On foot I traversed the Canadian peripheral, but with diligence, for a chase ensued. For once, The weighted steps of my dreamtime movement were free of hindrance, and the gap was lengthened by newfound dexterity. The roads I sprang from told a history, but speed of foot overshadowed that of mind. With me, a friend, a cartographer, mapping the lands as I passed. A testament to the swift, for I only smelt the heavy air of new territory thrice before passing its boundary.
I peruse her nudity for skin that lips have not yet reached. In order to press beyond this youthful quirkiness we must first discover each other completely. Every curve and crevice. Inside and out. An inch by inch scrutiny, where strengths and weaknesses become apparent. Through this knowledge we may fully utilize what we have, and reach past the barriers before us. Yet, all who have previously faced this seemingly simple task will agree that words and action are in few ways linked. A problem arises in the latter of the discovery, for few are quick to portray their faults.
Your turntable is spinning me a bit too fast these days. I'm beginning to get dizzy, and I forget which way is up. I'm worried the speed may propel me from your hands. Then again, you might like it if I shattered against the wall. You could pick me up and glue me back together. Then when I skipped you would have a reason to find love in a new sound. Your finger tip used to touch me so softly, and I loved to play you my melodies, but lately I just sound like a chipmunk, and that's been done.
On this day, two months ago, an innocent kiss brought about questions of the future. Now we stand twelve days from sharing our souls. I shake at the thought, but deep within, a sense of fortune prevails. As you know, art is the vitamin that keeps my bones from splitting and my heart from resting. It gets me through the day. With poetry I can cultivate my own subsistence and sustain self. But for so long now I have been tending these fields alone. Together in this we build a surplus. With you, its no longer just survival, its life.
I really think there was some kind of glitch in the system on the twenty seventh day of April, 1980. Alright, so I'm not really sure what this "system" I speak of is all about, but something definitely went wrong. Maybe it's like the movie Chances Are. After I died last time I was recycled to the wrong parents. First of all, I'm absolutely nothing like my mother. Wouldn't you think there would be at least a few similarities between us. Can't find them. Also, I love soccer, punk rock, and tea. I obviously should have been born in England.
They continue to cloud our vision. They hide confidently behind a wall of frosted glass, knowing that we would never strain through the translucency. A few rocks would dampen their deception, but complacency rules this land. Hypnotized with pretty pictures of the American dream. Our flags fly high with pride. We can't wipe the smile from our face, after all, our pockets and fuel tanks are full. It is almost too late. We must wake up and callus our soft hands. While we take our country back, the government's feet will be sliced on the shards of its own curtain
The weight of the real world has bound itself to my ankle. Its presence has been felt for some time now, but it was previously light and manageable. Recently it has become quite difficult to keep my head above water. My hope and strength is becoming engulfed by a great sea. The abyss will have the better of me if my hand is not soon embraced. Only a few flares remain, will these cries go unheard? The sharks are numerous, but I refuse to ally with them by pouring blood from my pockets. I will leave that to the clones.
I have very few memories of my dad helping me out with school stuff. I'm not saying he never wanted to help, I'm sure he did. My education has always been a big deal to him. I think his life experiences have taugh him the importance of school. But he has always put that type of stuff in my hands. "Hey buddy, you know I love you and I'll always be here for you, so if you ever need anything, just give me a call." Most people can't even keep their friends straight. That is the least of my problems.
Logarithmic manipulations towards a strategy of self-plotting. An agenda of diagnosis, to salvage the missing set of coordinates. Rediscovered in a land long forgotten, a text of archeological importance. Mangled, dusty, and incomplete. Chapter twenty two, page seven. The apex of all directions. The Origin, (0,0). My current placement is on a sliding scale, walking step by step with the light of days. The binding appears vast, but tells not of the true breadth. When I returned to the script years later, its stories had further ripened. Did the vandal sense his end or have I authored this new history.
Life in nine to thirteen months appears so mundane. A single stretch of road spans this impotent expanse, where deviation brings inevitable ruin. The mirrors reflections casts a telling scene. Reanimation, not from the bottom rung, but amidst a blanket of jagged briars. Blood will spill prior to the commencement of the impending climb. A seemingly insurmountable hole I will have dug when I at last reach the elusive foot hold… hope will be thin, like the air in my lungs. The remainder has often been dubbed "making a living". I see little life springing from this womb of monotony.
And the skies suddenly fell from grace into a depressing hue of lifeless grey. A murder of ravens has swallowed the sun and dropped a shroud of torment upon the shadowed below. Young black eyes accept tears with their lessening proximity. Sharp, salient beaks scream and brittle feathers pump ferociously. A horrific sight that only Melanie Daniels could claim experience. Once the food chain's overlord, we now squirm like worms. Natures final attempt to reclaim what humans so consciously de-manufacture. An uprising of the most unlikely breed, a sneak attack from above. Bombs and meteors go unspoken in this conclusion.
Through word manipulation, I strive to exercise my demons. An unwarranted longing haunts me this day. She has been the light in my eye for two months time, a mere 0.8% of my life. (This beating heart would be motionless were it not for my parents, yet, when at a distance for great time, their absence is vaguely noticed.) This weakness must be discarded. A proclamation to self that reads short and precise. You don’t miss her. I speak it loud and true at day’s end and beginning. Twice daily, a brainwashing. All the while, the light only gains illumination.
Thanksgiving, a glorious holiday, my personal favorite. Let’s give thanks to all that keeps us going, everything that produces smiles and laughter. An ode to the country we call home. A day for youth to learn, and the rest of us to reflect on how and why we are all here. We gather our families to update, reminisce, and… eat! Inundated with food and drink, we fill our stomachs and hearts. A needed release from the daily grind. Above all, I adore the lack of religious connections. No feeble attempt to segregate the non-believers. We can all cherish this day.
I suddently awake from a slumber that must have lasted years. A deep, involuntary hybernation. Its length I cannot say, but frailty and age weigh on my new conscienceness. Movement aches my decayed musculature and my sunken chest speaks of a lengthy malnurishment. Awake I did, but forty leagues under the sea. I first notice the company that surrounds me, before the warm, dry feel of my flesh. I'm allowed to breath naturally, but movement is still lathargic and muffled. Suddenly, the sillouettes that swim by my side become aware of my awakening, and teach me their strange aquatic dance.
Spontaneity governs this current process, where decision making chokes with delay. An awaited company has abandoned their normality and comfort to delve into that which forms mine. A tertiary medium found our engagement, and henceforth, many words of home have been spoken. I am given an opportunity to connect tales with visions, and I dare not embellish in grey. I need to throw everything at once and overwhelm the senses. An all out attach with limited delay. To put forth little thought will quench the idle, if only to meet what standards I myself have burdened... and only to please.
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