3

What was my perspective then?

What choices brought me this?

I don’t care for labels.

not looking to judge myself.

I simply want a record.

But how? How did this momentum build?

Bringing me to question.

Believing certain things to be the case.

Bleeding from my soul.

My soul is not my spirit.

can’t escape the history of the word.

My concept is something all my own.

soul is a series of thoughts that I have about myself.

then the pattern breaks.

The rhythm that lulled me to comfort has ceased to be.

Not only have I stopped hearing it. I have stopped feeling it.

I cannot imagine it.

I cannot recreate it or fight toward it.

I cannot ask anyone to duplicate it.

I have no point of reference.

And all the sources of comfort from the past…

Every one of them has become a chilling reminder.

A reminder of the changes I see in myself.

Words stop changing situations.

There is nothing to be said.

There is only the momentum that we find ourselves within.

There are brute facts

And

Brute weaknesses.

There are ways in which we speak to those who do not know the truth.

And ways in which we confess to those who exists outside the pressure of the realm of appearances.

There are fine lines

And

There are dirty deeds.

You know she sucked his dick.

You know you were out of sight out of mind.

And that horny slut went looking for a new thrill.

That stings you.

It stings me.

it’s the past.

Others aren’t so lucky.

claiming to be in good stead.

The isolation only shields the recluse from harm.

But what of growth?

What of reward?

What of the future of your kin?

I am right to turn to away.

And you are right to stand firm.

We are all correct.

Because the world functions as an undulating mass of relativistic nonsense.

Objective viewpoints?

Logical reasoning?

Shall we infuse the manifold with anything more ambiguous before we crumble under the weight of such shadowed content?

Shall we look at the stars and guess that they are the lamps projecting our image?

How beautiful it would seem above a melody.

It would be perfect.

Useful for seduction. a goofy tactful sort.

it all crumbles.

The façade is fleeting, of course.

Of course, of course.

We see it.

We recognize it.

Everything is so carefully done in order to have the benefit of hindsight.

But wait!

What have we done and begun, begun and done?

Everyone is waiting.

Calculating.

Everyone knows that they must approach somehow.

You are aware that you are disposable.

So you must entrench yourself.

You must establish your position and play it right.

But it can be done casually.

In stride.

It can be done without much thought.

Follow your propensities and improvise when trouble brews.

It is easy to run.

There is so much for sensation to do.

You need not be fulfilled.

You need not be solid.

You need not have a beautiful life to get you to sleep at night.

You can stay awake.

You can push the substance.

Live the hazy dream.

Escape from all that is.

BUT I KNOW

I know what it was like to be special.

I know what it was like to be in the throws.

Hours through days and days through weeks and a blur of events tied together with fucking and conversing, kissing, eating, showing up together, showering alone, laughing, being told to stop, bad moods and breaks, the pleasant return and the inexplicable acceptance.

The brilliance of the thing that engrosses.

Completely without understanding.

Only with a willingness to be there.

A form of choice that works out.

A form of choice that yields companionship and fulfillment.

For a time.

And I feel inclined to ask.

Will you wallow with me?

Will you wallow with me in the fetid bullshit of those that cannot find what they want within emotion?

Those who are so fucked up that they run around in a daze thinking that there is supposed to be something that cleanses the pain.

Have you seen them?

Have you seen yourself?

I think the subjective answer is implied.

Where is the catharsis?

The release comes from the process.

The process builds.

There is a momentum that carries us.

And in order to engage in the process there is an initial effort that must be put forth.

There is a sacrifice that must be made.

There is a form of choice that yields results.

This form is based in certain principles of character.

More words.

The moving mouth of wisdom.

The moving mouth spouts the doctrine of a given form of choice.

And those that adhere are unknowingly admitted into the halls of cathartic embrace.

They live out their lives in the midst of a cleansing ignorance and The Wretched, the people of awareness, stand in the street screaming as they claw at their rotten stomachs hoping that the pain will stop and that the beauty of the remainder will come around to make the smells and the sights of a glowing memory from a better day.

And there he was.

The middle school pussy ridiculed for his choice.

The soft faggot trampled by his girl.

The bi sexual miscreant that nervously bought a dildo only to throw it out a month later because he couldn’t imagine being caught with it.

The sentiments drift.

The sentimental drift.

When the good times remembered incite a longing in the subject.

The protagonist recalls… despite his effort to stay engaged in the present… recalls an afternoon in which the time was good.

The way it passed.

The way it came out of its surroundings.

The way space flexed with strange color when he pressed on his eye lids after a nap in the sun.

He realized that there were no choices to make and all he had to do was reach over and touch.

He would be allowed. He would go unhindered. He would be encouraged and kindly responded to.

There are no boundaries to the level of pleasantries that one might know in such a situation. Is she free enough to let you violate her vestiges of innocence? We she let you fuck her in the ass? Fuck her face? Pull her hair and call her a whore in anger?

NO.

She has an image of her self, an image of sorts. She doesn’t like the thought. She doesn’t feel right. She puts herself in a category of exclusion. I imagine it could be called self-respect. But you can shove your thumb in her butt when she’s drunk enough to slur some empty words. Consistency is lacking. Come to accept.

It doesn’t matter.

Experience continues.

Hardship.

Nicety.

Complaint.

Resolution.

We are far from caring what we overcome. There is the hope to avoid something unpleasant. There is the hope to be free of the concentrated flow of that which requires a concentrated effort in relation to that which leaves us disinterested, the hope to avoid that which does not entertain us, that which does not keep up stimulated and occupied in the most engaging sense. There is the desire to be one place while in another. There are sensations and thoughts. But I only care about my sensations. Everything else is subordinate. Any chain of events, any dialogue or preparation, it all belongs to the business of sensation.

But, the nobility… it must be taken into account.

Its existential position must be recognized.

Certain pieces in the pattern must be offered as stalwarts.

We must have a sturdy picture of the ways we should know and teach.

And what ties it all together?

What brilliance can be said to unify?

What has you listening to the sounds and knowing the concepts and keeping tabs on the state of your body?

What is that inexplicable inner sense?

The constant stream of content-filled perception.

I imagine it is something in the structure of our brains.

But what on earth is that?

More symbols?

More token language?

More box diagrams sketched up to explain something that intelligent people are far from understanding?

Clump information into broad categories and hope that someone more energized and informed will hammer out the details… bang up job… you quasi-scientist shits.

But there are social versions of these quasi-entities as well.

Use your attributes.

Use the gimmicks.

Please the crowd when you must and always… always remember that you must have an immutable character.

Your consistency and your admirable qualities will breed respect.

You will come to be known as a good kid, and a stand up guy.

A happy gal and a nice person to be around.

And you will be free of the character you seek.

Lacking substance.

I am comfortable grouping you with a chair.

You are capable of formulation but you are only causally related by default. You have nothing to offer and your knit picking style order made-to-please trend riding bullshit makes me want piss on my feet.

I am both disgusted and disgusting. I am not in the business of using my ability to choose. I allow myself to enter courses of action without knowing exactly what drives me. I am scatter-brained and inconsistent. But my inconsistency is not bound to commitment. I am allowed to drift because I do not owe.

I want to fall through. I want to see the others get what they deserve. And we… the community of degenerates will fall to the unyielding pavement. We will be crippled and the only option we will have for social sustenance is to turn to one another and view the mangled fool that lies crippled next to us… and after soaking the horror we will be forced to converse about whatever we can muster. The silence would be broken by the groans and the screams. Nowhere near enough discipline for silence.