winked out and died forever
I am, in truth, something of a delightful mystery to me. Perhaps that's why I never bother to make contact with anyone. I day dream and engage in illusionary conversations with myself in the bathroom mirror more and more often everyday while I am brushing my teeth or shaving my face without reason to ruin it with reality.
I have have not been called by my proper name since I can remember. I have not been called by my proper name by anyone. Every time I hear my name off another tongue I would watch as the letters slip from the lap of their lips and strand down into a dissimilar list. I am unformed. This is not a moment of peeve as one would put it so bluntly. This is as it were something as ceremonious as the coronation of a king gone backwards. A bizarre mixture of moments on a string, as if I were a puppet lightly lifted and persuaded by a giant hand, I turn to face dangerous directions as it would be.
Over the years I formed a habit of twitching my head to check all fours corners of delusional paranoia. I would twitch to make sure I'm caught up in some boring passage as I would sit and look up and down deciding which direction to set out. Would I be pressed against a window sill? Would I be the clock on the wall? Would I be basking in the common perception of rubbish as I would be what most believe themselves to be overwhelmingly happy? No. I'm crazier than a shit house rat deeply flawed than symbolized true beauty and genius. That’s something very rare in the world today – sometimes I think I am to be celebrated for the products of ones own undoing.
Obscured by the shadows of trees to the field as open as a faggot, I had walked my dog (or rather, he had walked me) through a suburban park this past weekend long overdue. I had been pondering antidotes in a monopoly, all the while attempting to convince myself that I am not going mad despite the fact that I think I am. I am ending but am I beginning too? Fortunately, according to authorities on the subject, I’m not allowed to think that and have it be true. What is there to say but what a relief.
For no reason beyond the unreasonable, what lies on the surface has become something that I’ve grown to despise out of convenience. When you come from a train of introversion you come from a world of those who find it the easiest thing to declare difficulty, in my case being that I really show no promise. My work and my dedication to giftly prospects have been admittedly, quite average and a mop up close to none but that hasen't stopped me from falling passionately in love with the lifestyle surrounding it. My joys lay in the atmosphere of it all and the trials of experience put through in a foolish attempt to gain some insight into the human condition not realizing that those who'd come prior had left repeated warnings not to bother.
Does it matter to me that I don't understand a great deal of what those that I associate with talk about? What matters most is only taking part in the births of ideas. Whether they were well founded ideas or not I could have known or cared less. But time always runs out on youth faster than you expect it to.
One evening I'll overhear the voices patronizing me in the toilet, they will not realize that I'll be in a stall. And it'll strike me then that I have run out of myself without my knowing. I'll foolishly declare no one hears me or cares, but I imagine I will go on none the less.
It is said that when you’re on the road to going mad you don’t notice it, but then again you cannot be mad if you think that you might be. When on the field of research the opposite is to be found true. When you’re going mad you’re quite aware of the fact that you are - you just can’t stop it. And when the day comes that you find yourself wholly consumed by madness, you’re the only one that knows what sanity actually is. I am often asked what I’m to do. Looking questionable myself, my usual answers are typically boring, primarily because I am living in entirely unpredictable times.
I have have not been called by my proper name since I can remember. I have not been called by my proper name by anyone. Every time I hear my name off another tongue I would watch as the letters slip from the lap of their lips and strand down into a dissimilar list. I am unformed. This is not a moment of peeve as one would put it so bluntly. This is as it were something as ceremonious as the coronation of a king gone backwards. A bizarre mixture of moments on a string, as if I were a puppet lightly lifted and persuaded by a giant hand, I turn to face dangerous directions as it would be.
Over the years I formed a habit of twitching my head to check all fours corners of delusional paranoia. I would twitch to make sure I'm caught up in some boring passage as I would sit and look up and down deciding which direction to set out. Would I be pressed against a window sill? Would I be the clock on the wall? Would I be basking in the common perception of rubbish as I would be what most believe themselves to be overwhelmingly happy? No. I'm crazier than a shit house rat deeply flawed than symbolized true beauty and genius. That’s something very rare in the world today – sometimes I think I am to be celebrated for the products of ones own undoing.
Obscured by the shadows of trees to the field as open as a faggot, I had walked my dog (or rather, he had walked me) through a suburban park this past weekend long overdue. I had been pondering antidotes in a monopoly, all the while attempting to convince myself that I am not going mad despite the fact that I think I am. I am ending but am I beginning too? Fortunately, according to authorities on the subject, I’m not allowed to think that and have it be true. What is there to say but what a relief.
For no reason beyond the unreasonable, what lies on the surface has become something that I’ve grown to despise out of convenience. When you come from a train of introversion you come from a world of those who find it the easiest thing to declare difficulty, in my case being that I really show no promise. My work and my dedication to giftly prospects have been admittedly, quite average and a mop up close to none but that hasen't stopped me from falling passionately in love with the lifestyle surrounding it. My joys lay in the atmosphere of it all and the trials of experience put through in a foolish attempt to gain some insight into the human condition not realizing that those who'd come prior had left repeated warnings not to bother.
Does it matter to me that I don't understand a great deal of what those that I associate with talk about? What matters most is only taking part in the births of ideas. Whether they were well founded ideas or not I could have known or cared less. But time always runs out on youth faster than you expect it to.
One evening I'll overhear the voices patronizing me in the toilet, they will not realize that I'll be in a stall. And it'll strike me then that I have run out of myself without my knowing. I'll foolishly declare no one hears me or cares, but I imagine I will go on none the less.
It is said that when you’re on the road to going mad you don’t notice it, but then again you cannot be mad if you think that you might be. When on the field of research the opposite is to be found true. When you’re going mad you’re quite aware of the fact that you are - you just can’t stop it. And when the day comes that you find yourself wholly consumed by madness, you’re the only one that knows what sanity actually is. I am often asked what I’m to do. Looking questionable myself, my usual answers are typically boring, primarily because I am living in entirely unpredictable times.
posted by daneatkinson at 18.7.06
1 Comments:
Super color scheme, I like it! Good job. Go on.
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