never used chimpanzees in my research
In what I may call visions of sequent events within the squares of a mammoth crossword puzzle. I had a lucid dream of looking for clues and numbers that aren’t there. So I run blind, and these squares that cut off into manipulated figures eventually turn into deserted alleyways. The alleys turn into a labyrinth with towering hedges without an exit. But I keep running anyway for the sake of something to do. I let myself get away, looking back at myself at how the signs were so simple yet no longer the same. I get more and more lost and tired. Terrified. Until I spot a warm light in the distance. It comes to 4:40 in the afternoon. Three times I had already tried to wake up but no go. So I let if off, still banking my shut eye for the rest of the week until I say, I have had enough of this.
Life is strange and I’m a stranger to it. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. No matter how deaf I may want to become. I’ll experience one close encounter with another in my cubbyhole of living beneath the hills.
This guy from my distant past has been coming over every second day to review along with myself the ponderings of existence. The exception between him and I is that he’s perpetually under the influence. Phase or not, it’s getting to my nerves. Him, along with the company of my canine companions.
Not that I need company in order to be pondering the meaning of life, of love, of relationships, of my place in the world and what it is that I want from this madness that we call existence. I think about it all the time about how I have I been slipping away from myself in slow motion and how it seems more like that way everyday. When I take the time to think about it, for as long as I can remember I can’t recall a time when I didn’t have some pain in my body, the taste of battery acid in my mouth, or this fog dulling my vision, etc.
There are those that contend that happiness is easy, that it is definable, automatic, and effortless as sex or drugs, but I have never put my hands down on such stock of much whimsy. Happiness is a war waged every second of every minute of every day. It is a process that, like a sausage maker, transforms the raw into packaged uniformity, ready to cook or burn or discard. Happiness is, in my experience, as disposable to most these days as razors and rice.
In favour of what though? The answer is as ironic as it is flimsy – a better version of happiness. The grass is always greener, the sun brighter, the sky always bluer, the water warmer in paradise. Within the enchanted walls of happiness is to be found ever altering perfections of days and moments, of carnal meetings, of passion and laughter.
There’s a prison filled with drug addicts living to a drum of non-perishable worship called new happiness. New happiness destroys more than it creates, pains more than it pleases, and divides more than it consolidates. And yet we desire it above all things. Perfection is illusory. The most spectacular of cars gets you from point A to point B no different than the most practical and most inexpensive. The perfect male or female body is only as desirable as what it contains, no matter the initial sexual impulses. No matter how attractive something is, if its nature is less than satisfactorily, ugly to say the least, then no amount of wishful thinking can amend it. Again I ask myself before I bring myself in to shut me up. Have I been slipping away from myself in slow motion?
It seems that way.
Life is strange and I’m a stranger to it. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. No matter how deaf I may want to become. I’ll experience one close encounter with another in my cubbyhole of living beneath the hills.
This guy from my distant past has been coming over every second day to review along with myself the ponderings of existence. The exception between him and I is that he’s perpetually under the influence. Phase or not, it’s getting to my nerves. Him, along with the company of my canine companions.
Not that I need company in order to be pondering the meaning of life, of love, of relationships, of my place in the world and what it is that I want from this madness that we call existence. I think about it all the time about how I have I been slipping away from myself in slow motion and how it seems more like that way everyday. When I take the time to think about it, for as long as I can remember I can’t recall a time when I didn’t have some pain in my body, the taste of battery acid in my mouth, or this fog dulling my vision, etc.
There are those that contend that happiness is easy, that it is definable, automatic, and effortless as sex or drugs, but I have never put my hands down on such stock of much whimsy. Happiness is a war waged every second of every minute of every day. It is a process that, like a sausage maker, transforms the raw into packaged uniformity, ready to cook or burn or discard. Happiness is, in my experience, as disposable to most these days as razors and rice.
In favour of what though? The answer is as ironic as it is flimsy – a better version of happiness. The grass is always greener, the sun brighter, the sky always bluer, the water warmer in paradise. Within the enchanted walls of happiness is to be found ever altering perfections of days and moments, of carnal meetings, of passion and laughter.
There’s a prison filled with drug addicts living to a drum of non-perishable worship called new happiness. New happiness destroys more than it creates, pains more than it pleases, and divides more than it consolidates. And yet we desire it above all things. Perfection is illusory. The most spectacular of cars gets you from point A to point B no different than the most practical and most inexpensive. The perfect male or female body is only as desirable as what it contains, no matter the initial sexual impulses. No matter how attractive something is, if its nature is less than satisfactorily, ugly to say the least, then no amount of wishful thinking can amend it. Again I ask myself before I bring myself in to shut me up. Have I been slipping away from myself in slow motion?
It seems that way.
posted by daneatkinson at 26.2.06
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