self deconstruction.
May 25, 2006
Dear Aenon,
I looked in the shadows for you today, even in the very depths of my inner ventrals to gaze upon porcelain glass. Still smelling your strewn clothes for lingering ginger scents, like littered leaves in autumn. I wake up in the frightening bleakness of the night with visions of fabricated grandeur. My jaw still hurts every morning. Every morning. Every morning. I fall into the familiar Technicolor swirl of everyday living; too tired to change. Inevitably, it does encapsulate me. The change I mean. One time I actually felt my brain move, twisting and writhing, formulating a new mathematical equation for myself, copulating with mystic beads and theories to produce a lovechild different from last minutes. It did it 147 times that day, and I couldn’t control myself. I think I cried for an hour. Maybe. I only hope what I remember is the truth. What memories have been forced to collaborate to streamline a ragged, hole ridden childhood haunting? I still hope they are true. It’s like the other day, I realized that I’ve only seen my parents kiss once in my entire life. Sadistic screams can be scintillating, scathing and scalding my memory and mind every time an image is projected in front of my eyes, but not actually projected, just shown. I have a bad habit of playing back those memories; excuse me, projections. I have a bad habit of alliteration. I have a bad habit of forgetting reality.
I don’t remember when the desensitization settled in, or when I started growing wings in my spare time. Each feather appearing miraculously out of white, almost transparent flesh. The white of the feather overpowered my skin, entirely enveloping the last hurrah of my ghostly pigment, and putting it to rest in a casket of alabaster. My wings, my wings, where have you gone? They have been plundered and stolen from me, botched and crippled by the swords of guilt and hatred. Maybe I will get them back when I stop killing my bicuspids every night. I wake up with sawdust in my mouth; The overwhelming powder of deception and under productivity.
I wanted to create a new world. One where the people open their eyes not to see, but to create. To paint with colors unknown to man, to mold trees and leaves, water and animals out of the air’s perspiration, out of a tree’s exhaling oxygenating breath. Sometimes I feel older than the Earth, with age crusted skin and dripping sallow fingers pointing the way for others. Other times I am a child, freshly expelled from the comforts of amniotic fluid, and screaming into the darkness of an abyss so large that it could swallow the universe and extinguish all of the light from the sun. For the first time in my life I’ve had to tie down my soul, keep it from escaping and leaving my body hollow, full of gasping organs and blood souring drum beats. It hides in the shadows with you, I know it does. I’ve seen the swirling chaos among seedy street alleys. The sparkling light inside of unwelcoming caves and dimly lit abandoned homes. I see you dancing with them. Dancing with the ghosts of the past, exchanging terrestrial stories about love. You always float away into the oblivion of the stars, dancing through celestial bodies, caressing constellations, and laughing with the moon. I was wondering, if this time, I could come with you?
Love Always,
Aenon
Dear Aenon,
I looked in the shadows for you today, even in the very depths of my inner ventrals to gaze upon porcelain glass. Still smelling your strewn clothes for lingering ginger scents, like littered leaves in autumn. I wake up in the frightening bleakness of the night with visions of fabricated grandeur. My jaw still hurts every morning. Every morning. Every morning. I fall into the familiar Technicolor swirl of everyday living; too tired to change. Inevitably, it does encapsulate me. The change I mean. One time I actually felt my brain move, twisting and writhing, formulating a new mathematical equation for myself, copulating with mystic beads and theories to produce a lovechild different from last minutes. It did it 147 times that day, and I couldn’t control myself. I think I cried for an hour. Maybe. I only hope what I remember is the truth. What memories have been forced to collaborate to streamline a ragged, hole ridden childhood haunting? I still hope they are true. It’s like the other day, I realized that I’ve only seen my parents kiss once in my entire life. Sadistic screams can be scintillating, scathing and scalding my memory and mind every time an image is projected in front of my eyes, but not actually projected, just shown. I have a bad habit of playing back those memories; excuse me, projections. I have a bad habit of alliteration. I have a bad habit of forgetting reality.
I don’t remember when the desensitization settled in, or when I started growing wings in my spare time. Each feather appearing miraculously out of white, almost transparent flesh. The white of the feather overpowered my skin, entirely enveloping the last hurrah of my ghostly pigment, and putting it to rest in a casket of alabaster. My wings, my wings, where have you gone? They have been plundered and stolen from me, botched and crippled by the swords of guilt and hatred. Maybe I will get them back when I stop killing my bicuspids every night. I wake up with sawdust in my mouth; The overwhelming powder of deception and under productivity.
I wanted to create a new world. One where the people open their eyes not to see, but to create. To paint with colors unknown to man, to mold trees and leaves, water and animals out of the air’s perspiration, out of a tree’s exhaling oxygenating breath. Sometimes I feel older than the Earth, with age crusted skin and dripping sallow fingers pointing the way for others. Other times I am a child, freshly expelled from the comforts of amniotic fluid, and screaming into the darkness of an abyss so large that it could swallow the universe and extinguish all of the light from the sun. For the first time in my life I’ve had to tie down my soul, keep it from escaping and leaving my body hollow, full of gasping organs and blood souring drum beats. It hides in the shadows with you, I know it does. I’ve seen the swirling chaos among seedy street alleys. The sparkling light inside of unwelcoming caves and dimly lit abandoned homes. I see you dancing with them. Dancing with the ghosts of the past, exchanging terrestrial stories about love. You always float away into the oblivion of the stars, dancing through celestial bodies, caressing constellations, and laughing with the moon. I was wondering, if this time, I could come with you?
Love Always,
Aenon