It can be a day, warm like the inert surface of a vibrant lake or the loose skin of a silver serpent. Slithering through our shadows. Something hoary and ancient. But still seething and bursting with your most venomous and murderous fires. Warm days can feel truly cold and dead. Whereas frozen, damp and dim places can be the most heartwarming of them all. They seem to be. My warmest moments never had anything to do with the weather or the outdoors, even the outside world was far from there.
Our skins did burst with rapture, making real nasty gushers of melancholy and promise but also of unanticipated pleasures. Puncturing our unripe senses and unleashing something of a god on our souls. I felt it. Haven’t you? I’m floating and bobbing languidly on layers of thick sentimental drivel. My pathetic goo of discontent and a thick sense of abandonment. A sorry excuse for empathy, which I seem to lack completely. And, let’s be honest, somewhat of an extravagance. Lavishly and shamelessly self-prescribed to soothe my whimpering. Trying to take the edge off.
As if I needed to be consoled. As if there is ever any point. The heart heals easily once you can admit the obvious. It’s just a big grey mass we all float in. The committed blacks and unwavering whites of our early life mix themselves up until it all dissolves into the converted silver skin of that venerable basilisk. The chemicals that perform and pretend to be the moral substances in our minds, run fresh out and leave only an astonishing flatness and the ominous majesty of death. The one, valid acknowledgement we all rush toward. It is much more than we deserve.
Beyond this breathing crust, the gray viper keeps on snapping at the soul, since the heart was left behind in the former round. Bereft from all senses and enriched with the clear view of the beyond, the wounds in our spirits can never fade or repair or even soften. At this point, the slayer is hailed with the warmest of welcomes. Before more of this gets imposed. Bring on the winter with its icy, short days.
Our skins did burst with rapture, making real nasty gushers of melancholy and promise but also of unanticipated pleasures. Puncturing our unripe senses and unleashing something of a god on our souls. I felt it. Haven’t you? I’m floating and bobbing languidly on layers of thick sentimental drivel. My pathetic goo of discontent and a thick sense of abandonment. A sorry excuse for empathy, which I seem to lack completely. And, let’s be honest, somewhat of an extravagance. Lavishly and shamelessly self-prescribed to soothe my whimpering. Trying to take the edge off.
As if I needed to be consoled. As if there is ever any point. The heart heals easily once you can admit the obvious. It’s just a big grey mass we all float in. The committed blacks and unwavering whites of our early life mix themselves up until it all dissolves into the converted silver skin of that venerable basilisk. The chemicals that perform and pretend to be the moral substances in our minds, run fresh out and leave only an astonishing flatness and the ominous majesty of death. The one, valid acknowledgement we all rush toward. It is much more than we deserve.
Beyond this breathing crust, the gray viper keeps on snapping at the soul, since the heart was left behind in the former round. Bereft from all senses and enriched with the clear view of the beyond, the wounds in our spirits can never fade or repair or even soften. At this point, the slayer is hailed with the warmest of welcomes. Before more of this gets imposed. Bring on the winter with its icy, short days.