Saturday, March 03, 2007

The Way It Begins (excerpt)

A curiosity at length—brushing past the days as I prepare for the reality around me. A better, bitter size of worth exclamation and degradation—where will this lead? There are other ways to handle it, surely. None of them have proved sound. I hold the keys to my sadness, my sorrow, my poetry. It is better to be alive, awake, and working. I wish I could compose my own happiness. Why should I tell you anything? When will the sky break past the trees? When will I realize that complaint means the end of it all? The difficulties are difficulties—nothing more. The strain of living—snuffed out by information overload. I am not able to keep up with the cost. Moving along slowly—she stopped. I heard nothing. Silence. The difference of rooms. Antiquated subject matter beyond belief—it’s a past time, something I don’t think of very often. I stamp out my own misery rather quickly. I transfer this thought to a new plane. To move on it—to reassess the joy within such motives. Snaps of childhood—other careless treats. The one time I want you. Pictures of birds singing with difficulty. Always challenging such bliss. I have tried, I worked at it. I gave it what I could without punishing myself. The rain subsided. Perhaps better things are to be expected. Perhaps they will come at a later date—when I am awake enough to understand such reasoning. The absence of conscience—almost approaching abject malice. A dismal state of affairs. Eliminating such healthy behavior. No negotiations—the ambassador had not arrived. A step forward. I count the days, the hours and the minutes until something better comes along.
I feel a little out of it today. My senses continue to arrange themselves in a disparate manner. Searching for a beginning—how might this work and what can it possibly promise? The details—you’re just drifting now—you couldn’t just produce (it) when it was required. You couldn’t sense how hard it is for me. What was I demanding, once again? When did it eclipse me? To make nothing willing or worthwhile—why is such idiocy permitted? How can this knowledge break apart my reality? In the beginning—was it all a cover story? I was replicating past sins—I suppose—nothing I’d particularly cared to relish. This is a month of blood and growth—away from the pain of being, far from this body. Carefully thought out plans. I’m losing touch with the challenge of the idea—its all too personal—such promises are meant to be broken. This city will swallow me whole. She is already away –must I remain dormant once again? I don’t want to destroy anything. There are other possibilities. Other times. I want to move on. Do something besides listen to such sadness.
We define each other. They stray from the truth. These insights horrify me. I don’t want to accept it. The feeling causes too much pain and trouble. How many characters? Very few. The events of the past have an effect on the present. They don’t just die out. They carry the sudden memories of each other in their absence. The meeting was quick, there wasn’t time to think—interim before her schedule kicked in again. He couldn’t reach her after they tampered with her life. Too much has been said—the way I do business means nothing—I will never understand. I will never learn what it means. My life is wrong. I should put an end to it. Desperation and Dialogue. I want to hear her whisper in my ear once again. Such studies form the basis of truth. Why do you persist? When will you shake this sickness? It upsets me too much. Alternate studies. Other kinds of action. My mind is flooded with all I cannot be. They aren’t ideals, they aren’t my goals.
“Thanks. I’d rather walk to the station—if its all the same to you.” She said and walked away. Down through the streets that, try as she might, she could not familiarize herself with.
It was this practice, this miserable study, this disgrace of action—tempting her away from him. She tried, beyond the sickness of secrets, she tried, phenomenally confusing him—pushing him into despair. The waking rocks on the surface of all our lies. She blinked at him, tried to smile, then left.
Such studied portrayals of our own delicate realities—all this does is ease the tide. Does it make you sit down and reconsider what she said? No. Not even for a second—as it so happens. None of it pointed to the truth—that was Triestessa’s sweet fantasy. She had experience—and that was better than any mystical idea. Evidence saves us from belief. Your words aren’t believed—your actions are. You must understand this, don’t you? We’ve tried. You wouldn’t let it go. We exploited it. Whatever I said before doesn’t count. It only pertains to what happened to you. Why is such behavior tolerated? How can it be—if it no longer exists/
We can do this later certainly, it doesn’t have to happen now.
“What do you think? Do you approve?” She asked, with hopeful eyes.


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