Dear Glistering Suncore
Dear Glistering Suncore,
It's Raining here. The Clouds are Gray and Impenetrable. The World feels like it Hates its life.
Does that do? Is that what you expect? More glum? More glum:
It's Raining here Again. The Wind whistles across the Roof of the House like a Referee Calling a Perpetual Foul. The Clouds are Collecting, letting Less Light in by the Minute, and Soon They will Spring their Diabolical Plan, Soon They will Drop on us in one Mass, as They have been Planning for so Long. No Living Thing is Outside, and the World feels like it would like to Turn its Back on Itself, feels like It has Entered a Parabola of Self-fulfilling Deprecation which has Become the Only Source of Pleasure, now. This Night is Ugly and Black like the Soul of the Earth.
How about that? On par with the usual? No? Again, with vigor?
It's Raining here Again, Raining Acid Drops that Eat at the Soul of the World, Corroding it Down to the Core, to the Pulpy Inside. Its Suffering is Great. The World is Looking at Itself in the Dirty Mirror of the Gray Whirling Firmament, Asking Itself, 'What have I Become?' And the Tears keep Coming Down. The World is Gathering Destruction unto Itself, the World is Girding on with Sorrow for Itself, the World is having a Bad Day. 'Life is a Mirage!' It Cries aloud, Falling to Its Metaphorical Knees for Effect. 'I want a Starry Night Tonight! I want a Starry Might Tonight!' the Earth Pleads in a Semi-Poetical Way to Who-knows, but the Rain keeps Coming Down, and the Night keeps Trickling Away and the Emptiness of the World only Grows Thicker, like Black, Black Pus in the Cut Across Its Black Soul. Cry, O World, Cry.
And so on and so forth. But enough bullshit.
I went bicycling yesterday. The wind scraped against me like a wire brush, dust lodged in my eyes and teeth in the wake of passing cars, the air smelled of carbon, the sun sanded against my forehead, and I was in that state you enter when you've been bicycling for a while, where thoughts pass through mind like trains do rail stations, and I figured out that I liked this, I liked this struggle, this one-way fight against the world and its fixtures, I liked it too much. But this is all I've got, I thought next, this fight against something is all I've got, then No, you've got the world, too, that's what I thought next, You've got the world, too, but that's all you've really got, because after your youth-energy leaves, after you're done fighting the hills, the wind, family, friends, the sun, after you're done fighting all the truly beautiful things this world has to offer, they, the beautiful and constant, will still be there, strong but needy, they will still be there and you will have a choice: reject them because you've always fought them, or reconcile? Continue in your dance of sadness because sadness fulfills itself and never lets you down, or love and discover and live and hurt and love again? Divorce yourself from everything, or attempt communion with it? I said to myself, I said, Understand, living in a cloak of rainbows and unicorns and little fluffy kittens is just as bad as living in a veil of famine and subsistence. Absinthe all the time will kill you just as well as Kool-Aid. The world can be beautiful if you allow it to be. And I was slightly surprised there were no angels singing, no God rumbling from unseen, no clouds parting.
It comes to this: I don't know where and I don't know when and even though I know it isn't guaranteed, one day after I've chosen to find you, I will find you.
Sincerely,
AP Saulters
It's Raining here. The Clouds are Gray and Impenetrable. The World feels like it Hates its life.
Does that do? Is that what you expect? More glum? More glum:
It's Raining here Again. The Wind whistles across the Roof of the House like a Referee Calling a Perpetual Foul. The Clouds are Collecting, letting Less Light in by the Minute, and Soon They will Spring their Diabolical Plan, Soon They will Drop on us in one Mass, as They have been Planning for so Long. No Living Thing is Outside, and the World feels like it would like to Turn its Back on Itself, feels like It has Entered a Parabola of Self-fulfilling Deprecation which has Become the Only Source of Pleasure, now. This Night is Ugly and Black like the Soul of the Earth.
How about that? On par with the usual? No? Again, with vigor?
It's Raining here Again, Raining Acid Drops that Eat at the Soul of the World, Corroding it Down to the Core, to the Pulpy Inside. Its Suffering is Great. The World is Looking at Itself in the Dirty Mirror of the Gray Whirling Firmament, Asking Itself, 'What have I Become?' And the Tears keep Coming Down. The World is Gathering Destruction unto Itself, the World is Girding on with Sorrow for Itself, the World is having a Bad Day. 'Life is a Mirage!' It Cries aloud, Falling to Its Metaphorical Knees for Effect. 'I want a Starry Night Tonight! I want a Starry Might Tonight!' the Earth Pleads in a Semi-Poetical Way to Who-knows, but the Rain keeps Coming Down, and the Night keeps Trickling Away and the Emptiness of the World only Grows Thicker, like Black, Black Pus in the Cut Across Its Black Soul. Cry, O World, Cry.
And so on and so forth. But enough bullshit.
I went bicycling yesterday. The wind scraped against me like a wire brush, dust lodged in my eyes and teeth in the wake of passing cars, the air smelled of carbon, the sun sanded against my forehead, and I was in that state you enter when you've been bicycling for a while, where thoughts pass through mind like trains do rail stations, and I figured out that I liked this, I liked this struggle, this one-way fight against the world and its fixtures, I liked it too much. But this is all I've got, I thought next, this fight against something is all I've got, then No, you've got the world, too, that's what I thought next, You've got the world, too, but that's all you've really got, because after your youth-energy leaves, after you're done fighting the hills, the wind, family, friends, the sun, after you're done fighting all the truly beautiful things this world has to offer, they, the beautiful and constant, will still be there, strong but needy, they will still be there and you will have a choice: reject them because you've always fought them, or reconcile? Continue in your dance of sadness because sadness fulfills itself and never lets you down, or love and discover and live and hurt and love again? Divorce yourself from everything, or attempt communion with it? I said to myself, I said, Understand, living in a cloak of rainbows and unicorns and little fluffy kittens is just as bad as living in a veil of famine and subsistence. Absinthe all the time will kill you just as well as Kool-Aid. The world can be beautiful if you allow it to be. And I was slightly surprised there were no angels singing, no God rumbling from unseen, no clouds parting.
It comes to this: I don't know where and I don't know when and even though I know it isn't guaranteed, one day after I've chosen to find you, I will find you.
Sincerely,
AP Saulters