(no subject)
What happened to my way with words?
More than ever, this world is becoming ugly. Once or twice, while bathing in idle thought, it occurred to me that the world might have a finite amount of good fortune, and that we somehow draw love, caring, and happiness from this ambient spark that lives in us all. This vibrance just races through out souls, and veins, and hair, and sinew, and all living beings form this incredible of conduit of positivity in the world. Imagine that being the case, the world, the meaning of life, and then all the good just beings to run out.
Now, it wouldn't just shut off like some giant switch, or some such. It just ended this mutual flow we all enable. No longer would a bit of our inner drive be left on the skin we've just kissed, or that cake my mother just baked. It simply becomes stagnant, and the friction of life and loss just wears until all you see is despair. Relationships descend into their winter years, and tearing soul winds just rip it into the flinders of fallen icicles. It's nights like these where I see it so well, like trade-route maps super-imposed on ship-wreck sights, like constellation depictions glowing in a starry sky. We're all just slowly winding down, in the twilights of some karmic solstice. Imagine the despair of everyone falling out of love. It wouldn't even be that the world were cruel, dismal paints it with an accurate and expressive brush.
Our world would crumble, as the spirit of everyone living and breathing slowly deflated into the emaciation that only the lost know. Seeing it slip away from a person can almost be joyous; some have so much to give, like a party-sized bag of Easter Pastel M&M's, so delicious and digestible with noticable morsels. People want to give that will they have within them, and spread the happiness. The circuit that runs through them can be so rewarding, but if the current of greatness were to stop, you'd still go back to your candy, but holding that purple bag in you hand, with the cartoon candies, would just grown empty and bleak. We've all finished a bag of candy sometime, and you hold it upside-down in your hand, shaking a few times after the last piece has fallen. We all wish to exhaust our joy, even if it's at someone else expense. Very seldom to we return the glee we experience. Rather, we pass it on to a third party, who does the same. So the cycle works well.
No one is probably connecting with this, an unanswere telephone just softly ringing. It's drowned out by 10,000 Maniacs on the office radio, when everyone is out on lunch break. Thrice-damned to be unacknowledged, like all of our deepest pleas. The Janitors don't answer these calls. This isn't what people want to hear; my dark dreams of our emotional oblivion.
You folks want to read about me relating the lust of warm salt water across my shaven-arm pits, or how I wish I could feel freckled fingers run through my unwashed hair. Perusing how I wear blue-coveralls and sing "Moondance" (a la Van Morrison) when I'm alone, sliding through puddles of oil left by flathead v-10s that the geezers bring to work, and how I relate some shred of my really hidden inner self with all of you. Which is a good thing.
I have no more inspiration.
More than ever, this world is becoming ugly. Once or twice, while bathing in idle thought, it occurred to me that the world might have a finite amount of good fortune, and that we somehow draw love, caring, and happiness from this ambient spark that lives in us all. This vibrance just races through out souls, and veins, and hair, and sinew, and all living beings form this incredible of conduit of positivity in the world. Imagine that being the case, the world, the meaning of life, and then all the good just beings to run out.
Now, it wouldn't just shut off like some giant switch, or some such. It just ended this mutual flow we all enable. No longer would a bit of our inner drive be left on the skin we've just kissed, or that cake my mother just baked. It simply becomes stagnant, and the friction of life and loss just wears until all you see is despair. Relationships descend into their winter years, and tearing soul winds just rip it into the flinders of fallen icicles. It's nights like these where I see it so well, like trade-route maps super-imposed on ship-wreck sights, like constellation depictions glowing in a starry sky. We're all just slowly winding down, in the twilights of some karmic solstice. Imagine the despair of everyone falling out of love. It wouldn't even be that the world were cruel, dismal paints it with an accurate and expressive brush.
Our world would crumble, as the spirit of everyone living and breathing slowly deflated into the emaciation that only the lost know. Seeing it slip away from a person can almost be joyous; some have so much to give, like a party-sized bag of Easter Pastel M&M's, so delicious and digestible with noticable morsels. People want to give that will they have within them, and spread the happiness. The circuit that runs through them can be so rewarding, but if the current of greatness were to stop, you'd still go back to your candy, but holding that purple bag in you hand, with the cartoon candies, would just grown empty and bleak. We've all finished a bag of candy sometime, and you hold it upside-down in your hand, shaking a few times after the last piece has fallen. We all wish to exhaust our joy, even if it's at someone else expense. Very seldom to we return the glee we experience. Rather, we pass it on to a third party, who does the same. So the cycle works well.
No one is probably connecting with this, an unanswere telephone just softly ringing. It's drowned out by 10,000 Maniacs on the office radio, when everyone is out on lunch break. Thrice-damned to be unacknowledged, like all of our deepest pleas. The Janitors don't answer these calls. This isn't what people want to hear; my dark dreams of our emotional oblivion.
You folks want to read about me relating the lust of warm salt water across my shaven-arm pits, or how I wish I could feel freckled fingers run through my unwashed hair. Perusing how I wear blue-coveralls and sing "Moondance" (a la Van Morrison) when I'm alone, sliding through puddles of oil left by flathead v-10s that the geezers bring to work, and how I relate some shred of my really hidden inner self with all of you. Which is a good thing.
I have no more inspiration.