(no subject)
I fell into a burning ring of fire. My fear, capriciousness my most prurient desire, all roll counterpoint to the conventional, conceptual gestalts and metacognitive constructs that I have developed through life's richest experiences. I vicariously envelop the proclivities of others under my hood of lies and duplicity, but the fact that they fall for it is not something that was a factor of my own doing. They are just an innocent bystander, and I am carrying out the function for which I was programmed.
So there she is, walking in front of me, glancing back only long enough to see that she has my attention. If I wasn't on her six, then she would just keep on walking, but since she saw me, she will perform. As she should. People like that are given special and unique gifts, and they should be unselfish with them. They should allow the tendons in their heels to flex a little bit longer, they should shake their hips just a little bit more. Not blatant exhibitionsism, because innuendo is so much more powerful, and it appeals to the sense that I have that the entire world has not regressed into a world in which the supergo is the Id's bitch. Without villains, there would be no heroes, but true evil needs a paragon of virtue and moral fiber to attack. mortal enemies, sworn to make each other a memory, but there is a mutual respect, fear, and amiration for a worthy adversary. No one wants to go into a battle of wits with the unarmed. A disparate performance between the combatants means no less or more than a carefully matched showdown, but the moral sense of fair play warrants that each party have an equal and independent chance of taking the spoils, collecting them like feathers in a native American headdress. A headdress that contains the souls of our pride, and the ideals for which we make the ultimate sacrifice.
Arpeggios, memories, the staccato fabric of reality, the patchwork assortment of God's creatures, great and small. The feel of hot breath on the back of your neck, but the hot breath of the right person. Things that you heard from others about the things that you did. The sforzando pitch and ebb of fleeting and superficial involvement in growth. Not spiritual growth, not physical growth, but the growth of the divisiveness of you and the nebbish sycophants that you have to stomp on en route to a life where you have arrived, and met with the approval of others. You bring flowers, you serve and protect, you show uncharacteristic avuncular compassion, and at the end of the day, you are sitting on the sidelines, watching someone else claim your glory, because you allowed them to. You encouraged them to, because all you need is an immaculate karma, and an ability to not make a fool of yourself. Everyone knows that there is nothing worse than being ordinary, save for being expendable. But your atrabilious adherence to the status quo, your most carnal and erotic attachment to homeostasis, and the taste of the forbidden force your hand. They force you to accept the social caste to which you have been assigned. If for no other reason, it is just what you have done, It is what is expected of you, and you have resigned yourself to that. But while you run on autopilot, the broken glass memories and the cotton candy nostalgia oppress you, and you eventually make the fall that everyone else has.
It is your fault, you were asking for it, and it is your fate, if you believe in such a thing. Just accept it, sit back and enjoy it, and find someone to blame later. Use it as a springboard to an epic moral victory for the good guys, or just file it away onto your rolodex under complacency. But whatever you do, get out of my way, because the view is great from where I sit, and all the candy moves faster than I'd like them to, so I have to play the had that I was dealt, and hope that I have learned all the tells.
So there she is, walking in front of me, glancing back only long enough to see that she has my attention. If I wasn't on her six, then she would just keep on walking, but since she saw me, she will perform. As she should. People like that are given special and unique gifts, and they should be unselfish with them. They should allow the tendons in their heels to flex a little bit longer, they should shake their hips just a little bit more. Not blatant exhibitionsism, because innuendo is so much more powerful, and it appeals to the sense that I have that the entire world has not regressed into a world in which the supergo is the Id's bitch. Without villains, there would be no heroes, but true evil needs a paragon of virtue and moral fiber to attack. mortal enemies, sworn to make each other a memory, but there is a mutual respect, fear, and amiration for a worthy adversary. No one wants to go into a battle of wits with the unarmed. A disparate performance between the combatants means no less or more than a carefully matched showdown, but the moral sense of fair play warrants that each party have an equal and independent chance of taking the spoils, collecting them like feathers in a native American headdress. A headdress that contains the souls of our pride, and the ideals for which we make the ultimate sacrifice.
Arpeggios, memories, the staccato fabric of reality, the patchwork assortment of God's creatures, great and small. The feel of hot breath on the back of your neck, but the hot breath of the right person. Things that you heard from others about the things that you did. The sforzando pitch and ebb of fleeting and superficial involvement in growth. Not spiritual growth, not physical growth, but the growth of the divisiveness of you and the nebbish sycophants that you have to stomp on en route to a life where you have arrived, and met with the approval of others. You bring flowers, you serve and protect, you show uncharacteristic avuncular compassion, and at the end of the day, you are sitting on the sidelines, watching someone else claim your glory, because you allowed them to. You encouraged them to, because all you need is an immaculate karma, and an ability to not make a fool of yourself. Everyone knows that there is nothing worse than being ordinary, save for being expendable. But your atrabilious adherence to the status quo, your most carnal and erotic attachment to homeostasis, and the taste of the forbidden force your hand. They force you to accept the social caste to which you have been assigned. If for no other reason, it is just what you have done, It is what is expected of you, and you have resigned yourself to that. But while you run on autopilot, the broken glass memories and the cotton candy nostalgia oppress you, and you eventually make the fall that everyone else has.
It is your fault, you were asking for it, and it is your fate, if you believe in such a thing. Just accept it, sit back and enjoy it, and find someone to blame later. Use it as a springboard to an epic moral victory for the good guys, or just file it away onto your rolodex under complacency. But whatever you do, get out of my way, because the view is great from where I sit, and all the candy moves faster than I'd like them to, so I have to play the had that I was dealt, and hope that I have learned all the tells.