johnlesliemackie
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Apr 9, 2015
- Messages
- 401
The day had started in splendid fashion and the idea that a mere word had the capacity to transmute day into night, living into dying, proceeding into waiting, was, at the time, inconceivable, and even though this mere word's endless connotations had a place in each developed human being's interior, they were still latent, lurking, waiting for the right time to appear and induce associations able to make the world disappear, layer for layer dissolving into lonely nothingness where the perpetual longing for love is forever unfulfilled, where love exists only as a concept, so desirable yet so far away, lost in the cosmically vast domain of language. But the word was the end of the splendidness defining the initial fraction of the day; and, above that, it was a new beginning for her. Thoughts scared her; she fought them with full passion, she imagined her hair, her long, black hair, seemingly seeping down from her head to her chest in an ink-like manner, almost artistically sculptured, covering and protecting her from the what was hidden beneath her crown and stuck in her heart, namely, iniquities -- and accompanied fear of making them a part of the fabric of her world.
She talked about me, touched my name with her tongue, although it was perpetually meaningless to her. Oh! I wanted my name to be that word -- exhorting and illuminating, more than a decorative seal sheathing her mind. I have nothing to worry about, no torment, no distress, except for the scar on my foot. I shot myself in my right foot. It has healed, but not fully; I can still feel it, the pain, deep down, infusing the cavity of my mind. But let us forget about the pain and its atrocious reminiscences. A couple of years ago, the time went by fast, incomparably faster than now. That was before I shot myself. A lot seemed distorted. The days were bright and nights became day, never allowing the stars' subtle twinkles to protrude. I used to savor the forest, fathom nature, the beautiful and the grotesque working together in seamless harmonies. The forest was lively, the stones had faces, their physiognomy called me; round goldcrests were singing, creating music, so vivid, so enlivened. A couple of green leaves were dancing on the ground. I remember different beetles buzzing. The sound was inexplicably unique. Qualia, I thought back then, this is it: the gleaming poetry of nature, its preverbal tones, all here! We fished -- me and a friend. Smoked cigarettes and drank lemonade, enclasped by nature. Back then, I did not think about her. The slowly surging water soothed my mind. No loneliness, no her, no word. Now, I'm haunted by her, reminded by Beckett that, "I'm terrified, of not loving, of loving and not you," and that, "if you do not love me I shall not be loved." But that was a long time ago, the love -- I do not know why I still ruminate over it. Why is it different now when the surrounding remains the same? It's not her, it can't be her. I'm pretty sure it's not her. I think. I thought. Now, I don't know. Fear is always present, ubiquitous. Rooted in my bone marrow. Fear of love? I'm not crazy, although some people beg to differ. She called me crazy once. Or was it psychotic? Maybe both. I can't recall the exact phrase she uttered, but she was right. I'm terrified of loving, especially her. I can hear water pouring down the gutter in a cohesive rhythm. The rhythm of nature is the rhythm of loneliness, not my loneliness, but a loneliness without alternative, transcending time and syntax. As did she -- transcend time and syntax. So why this word? So much thinking. Coffee will put my mind to ease. Unless it excites my nervous system. Gaudy voices coming from outside, the sound of witches conjuring spells, laughter echoing like the screeches from seagulls; inhuman, exactly like this town, this macabre nest populated by turgid inbreds, nothing more than metastatic growths in our social matrix, their soullessness malignant and toxic, affecting everyone who stays in touch with this town for too long. I think I had too much coffee.
She was on her way home. Her face was beautiful, her body a bless of nature, with enticing curves fulfilling the beauty of being a woman, gratifying the feminine. Her nose was flat, coated with freckles; her skin oily, lightly tanned, with visible scars from clusters of pimples. Black hair not only covered her head but also her arms. Exposed to the wrong light it looked like dirt. Her breasts were asymmetrically shaped, with one breast contradicting the other, as if God made them symbols for her continual struggles between logic and sentiments, light and dark, love and hate, true belief and irony. I wasn't prepared for her imperfections; I wasn't prepared to separate dream from reality. My reaction was the negation of a reaction: apathy. She contently subtracted me from her life. But you could always sense a subtle melancholy, caused by what she did not think of, a void inside her absorbing energy only to release it, let it penetrate her protective walls and trigger an anxious response. First, it was hard. To consciously disregard what had happened had a huge psychological cost, but she gradually learned how to handle it and developed a habitual negligence of the past. Habit fortified her existential rhythm and generated unalterable patterns by evening things out. The extraordinary was rendered ordinary and the great horrors of her past were decimated. The unconscious took over. But the word destroyed her illusion. Now, the armature of habit was more fragile than ever. Her mother dated different guys, most of them alcoholic slobs. She rarely thinks about them, and she never thinks about that guy -- that grey, nebulous entity with fat, sweaty, utterly untidy hands. She never forgot his hands, nor did she forget his indifferent eyes. She was developed for her age, yet too young to know, too young to act. There was no primal lust in his eyes, no indication of what drove him except for pure iniquity as he repeatedly forced his hands inside her, his eyes still indifferent, his pelvis was thrusting back and forth with no precaution for her physical frailty. Her value was sexual. The harsh realities of rape intruded her life way too early.
Oh, sure, my eyes were never anything else than indifferent. Did she see him in me? Or maybe a subtle association was enough for her mind to leave the current time flow and explode into different angles of the past. Why do I ponder this, the already effectuated? Nothing more than taunting images. Being human is banal. I write this to abridge time. I have counted the lonely hours on numerous occasions, yet those occasions just flew by, disappeared like this moment will disappear. I don't think about her much. The love -- that was years ago, if it even was; now and even more so in the future, it is and will be even more impossible for me to conclude. The pine trees outside, proud like titans, defy the sun, yet rays of light wander on my desk. Ah! A new season. And all this time she has been inside me, because during moments, I thought I loved her, I really loved her, I think, and she never knew because she was too terrified to bear the burden, trying to detract my every word by truthfully saying, 'Give me your understanding and your intellect.' While I mourned that she was not taking my name in her mouth, asking for my life. A wave of sadness is sliding through my heart. What was why was it what if why oh why, I think to myself as the warm hours of spring dissolve. Oh, nothing is as beautiful as the first solitary minutes with someone who could love you and someone who you could love, nothing is so filled with seductive anticipation and nothing will ever be so beautiful. And I've replayed that memory, those minutes too many times, scrutinised the beauty, remembering the irresistible yearning reflected by her eyes and the exact endomorphic contours of her feminine body. But why would I mourn the loss of someone who never belonged to me? She's not real, she's a dream, and although I don't love much in life, I'm in love with that dream. She was never mine, she is and will always be a fantasy, a chimera whose unrequited love educes a sharp pain in my chest, cutting it in two. But it wasn't much of a dream anyway. I have forgotten her... it, the dream, yknow. You see, I'm lonely, lonelier than most people. I'm also sick, sicker than most people. My life means so little to me. I would give it away to a dream if that was possible. This despair, so substantial, if not for substances. From my lawn I can sense the smell of dead grass and moisture from the wet forest, making life's soulless gloom and the sadness over everything's superficiality even more distinct. The whole town and the life I lived was nothing more than a mere game, a game whose rules I knew well, man of myself, as I am, and over my weird destiny. The anxiety over my isolation endowed my subsistence as a form of adventure into solipsism. When I went to get my post I did it with an indifferent expression, and the secretary from whom I received my package had no clue this package unsealed the door to precious fantasies, amalgamating me with with a foreign existence, arabesque yet reconciling, unfathomable for others. Oh, pleasant songs I want to sing you and hymns express, because your soul -- so warm, so vividly animated -- I miss. The soul of my dream. You -- the dream. I want my soul in the shadow of your lively palm, knowing your being's mysteries. Your integrity -- glowing! Although I haven't seen you for years I can still feel your presence through the memory of your smile, if not for the darkness. Emergence. Spring -- emerge. My mind, the phenomenon, too intense. And it's blowing cold outside. I hate nature, especially cold, windy weather. Again -- spring -- emerge! Dissolve dukkha! Arrive atman! A life without love. The same loneliness, eternal, buried underneath the grass. Oh, the harmless tones of the birds, interweaving uniformly with my restless morning, making it more tender, less toilsome. I can't forget you. Please, help me. Your head deserves a crown made of gold and I will give you my tongue, my speech. Rise from the decay! Your power and greatness are expressed through your creation. I'm probably dreaming again. Pyknons: the unconsciousness of the morning, the slow dreadsome initiation of yet another day of decay. Time has ceased to exist, at least in my mind. Anxious, confused -- the surrounding being there but I can't sense it, searching through the depths of my memory trying to recall the habitual patterns defining human life. I'm trying to organize seemingly familiar sequences, merge them to some entity which I can grasp.
Repression. A word she often uttered. I wasn't blind. In her town, sports, politics and religion are the three passions of the uneducated. They are ugly to see, sources to everlasting discontentment, sucking the life out of her. The human being has never been fit for a human environment. Religion, their nearly all-consuming passion -- well, that and, as I mentioned, sports and politics -- mainly protestantic, 63 % to be correct, nothing more than an illusory veil to avoid life's incessant jarring, an insipid belief, yes, but effective. So boring to perceive; the emptiness filled with yet more emptiness, the void still there -- they are merely unaware of it, the uneducated, the habitual creatures we define as human beings. Ah! Humanity! Being human, being distracted from boredom and distress. Eating silly religious aphorisms for dinner. At least the sun is shining in Tennessee, situated in this land without a tradtional culture; this great nation, globally hegemonic in its cultural influence. If television and formative stimuli count as culture. Most likely not. In their ignorance, they do what they believe is right to do, not knowing how it is to be good. Virtue, self-mastery, postmodern understandings of the expressions of our now alienated inner selves and the virtue of counting everyone's interests equally. This is religion. Spiritual. USA's not religious; rather, it is ununified, entwined in its own illusions. The masses are hard to dissolve. She knows it. For her, it's a minor malaise. Masses necessitate uniformity, direction, a goal with which you can connect the masses into one unity. All equal, they think. Unable to conquer, they think. The pressure gathers a false form of collective, a huge, ugly mass, derived from stupid spontaneity. The external factors -- television, music, sports, religion, patriotism -- they are all superficialities whose sole purpuse is to unite and enslave the following masses of USA. But I'm worried. Anxious, even. I know nothing about the female nature, and even less about the youth of today, the coming generation.
The word was a ghost, ghastly. Life's puzzles can't be solved in the abstract. In May, the high time of spring, I awoke; arisen again, in spring, I will awake. Nostalgia -- the affective mirror of my past will yet again shed light on my existence. My roots are back, they are there, letting my self loose from the dream's narcosis. Bye, what could have been! From down under, my eyes can now rest on the redemptive stream of time, preserved from destiny's mephistolian kisses.
A new life, new thighs, new sentiments, new soil. I will find you. I will create anew.
She talked about me, touched my name with her tongue, although it was perpetually meaningless to her. Oh! I wanted my name to be that word -- exhorting and illuminating, more than a decorative seal sheathing her mind. I have nothing to worry about, no torment, no distress, except for the scar on my foot. I shot myself in my right foot. It has healed, but not fully; I can still feel it, the pain, deep down, infusing the cavity of my mind. But let us forget about the pain and its atrocious reminiscences. A couple of years ago, the time went by fast, incomparably faster than now. That was before I shot myself. A lot seemed distorted. The days were bright and nights became day, never allowing the stars' subtle twinkles to protrude. I used to savor the forest, fathom nature, the beautiful and the grotesque working together in seamless harmonies. The forest was lively, the stones had faces, their physiognomy called me; round goldcrests were singing, creating music, so vivid, so enlivened. A couple of green leaves were dancing on the ground. I remember different beetles buzzing. The sound was inexplicably unique. Qualia, I thought back then, this is it: the gleaming poetry of nature, its preverbal tones, all here! We fished -- me and a friend. Smoked cigarettes and drank lemonade, enclasped by nature. Back then, I did not think about her. The slowly surging water soothed my mind. No loneliness, no her, no word. Now, I'm haunted by her, reminded by Beckett that, "I'm terrified, of not loving, of loving and not you," and that, "if you do not love me I shall not be loved." But that was a long time ago, the love -- I do not know why I still ruminate over it. Why is it different now when the surrounding remains the same? It's not her, it can't be her. I'm pretty sure it's not her. I think. I thought. Now, I don't know. Fear is always present, ubiquitous. Rooted in my bone marrow. Fear of love? I'm not crazy, although some people beg to differ. She called me crazy once. Or was it psychotic? Maybe both. I can't recall the exact phrase she uttered, but she was right. I'm terrified of loving, especially her. I can hear water pouring down the gutter in a cohesive rhythm. The rhythm of nature is the rhythm of loneliness, not my loneliness, but a loneliness without alternative, transcending time and syntax. As did she -- transcend time and syntax. So why this word? So much thinking. Coffee will put my mind to ease. Unless it excites my nervous system. Gaudy voices coming from outside, the sound of witches conjuring spells, laughter echoing like the screeches from seagulls; inhuman, exactly like this town, this macabre nest populated by turgid inbreds, nothing more than metastatic growths in our social matrix, their soullessness malignant and toxic, affecting everyone who stays in touch with this town for too long. I think I had too much coffee.
She was on her way home. Her face was beautiful, her body a bless of nature, with enticing curves fulfilling the beauty of being a woman, gratifying the feminine. Her nose was flat, coated with freckles; her skin oily, lightly tanned, with visible scars from clusters of pimples. Black hair not only covered her head but also her arms. Exposed to the wrong light it looked like dirt. Her breasts were asymmetrically shaped, with one breast contradicting the other, as if God made them symbols for her continual struggles between logic and sentiments, light and dark, love and hate, true belief and irony. I wasn't prepared for her imperfections; I wasn't prepared to separate dream from reality. My reaction was the negation of a reaction: apathy. She contently subtracted me from her life. But you could always sense a subtle melancholy, caused by what she did not think of, a void inside her absorbing energy only to release it, let it penetrate her protective walls and trigger an anxious response. First, it was hard. To consciously disregard what had happened had a huge psychological cost, but she gradually learned how to handle it and developed a habitual negligence of the past. Habit fortified her existential rhythm and generated unalterable patterns by evening things out. The extraordinary was rendered ordinary and the great horrors of her past were decimated. The unconscious took over. But the word destroyed her illusion. Now, the armature of habit was more fragile than ever. Her mother dated different guys, most of them alcoholic slobs. She rarely thinks about them, and she never thinks about that guy -- that grey, nebulous entity with fat, sweaty, utterly untidy hands. She never forgot his hands, nor did she forget his indifferent eyes. She was developed for her age, yet too young to know, too young to act. There was no primal lust in his eyes, no indication of what drove him except for pure iniquity as he repeatedly forced his hands inside her, his eyes still indifferent, his pelvis was thrusting back and forth with no precaution for her physical frailty. Her value was sexual. The harsh realities of rape intruded her life way too early.
Oh, sure, my eyes were never anything else than indifferent. Did she see him in me? Or maybe a subtle association was enough for her mind to leave the current time flow and explode into different angles of the past. Why do I ponder this, the already effectuated? Nothing more than taunting images. Being human is banal. I write this to abridge time. I have counted the lonely hours on numerous occasions, yet those occasions just flew by, disappeared like this moment will disappear. I don't think about her much. The love -- that was years ago, if it even was; now and even more so in the future, it is and will be even more impossible for me to conclude. The pine trees outside, proud like titans, defy the sun, yet rays of light wander on my desk. Ah! A new season. And all this time she has been inside me, because during moments, I thought I loved her, I really loved her, I think, and she never knew because she was too terrified to bear the burden, trying to detract my every word by truthfully saying, 'Give me your understanding and your intellect.' While I mourned that she was not taking my name in her mouth, asking for my life. A wave of sadness is sliding through my heart. What was why was it what if why oh why, I think to myself as the warm hours of spring dissolve. Oh, nothing is as beautiful as the first solitary minutes with someone who could love you and someone who you could love, nothing is so filled with seductive anticipation and nothing will ever be so beautiful. And I've replayed that memory, those minutes too many times, scrutinised the beauty, remembering the irresistible yearning reflected by her eyes and the exact endomorphic contours of her feminine body. But why would I mourn the loss of someone who never belonged to me? She's not real, she's a dream, and although I don't love much in life, I'm in love with that dream. She was never mine, she is and will always be a fantasy, a chimera whose unrequited love educes a sharp pain in my chest, cutting it in two. But it wasn't much of a dream anyway. I have forgotten her... it, the dream, yknow. You see, I'm lonely, lonelier than most people. I'm also sick, sicker than most people. My life means so little to me. I would give it away to a dream if that was possible. This despair, so substantial, if not for substances. From my lawn I can sense the smell of dead grass and moisture from the wet forest, making life's soulless gloom and the sadness over everything's superficiality even more distinct. The whole town and the life I lived was nothing more than a mere game, a game whose rules I knew well, man of myself, as I am, and over my weird destiny. The anxiety over my isolation endowed my subsistence as a form of adventure into solipsism. When I went to get my post I did it with an indifferent expression, and the secretary from whom I received my package had no clue this package unsealed the door to precious fantasies, amalgamating me with with a foreign existence, arabesque yet reconciling, unfathomable for others. Oh, pleasant songs I want to sing you and hymns express, because your soul -- so warm, so vividly animated -- I miss. The soul of my dream. You -- the dream. I want my soul in the shadow of your lively palm, knowing your being's mysteries. Your integrity -- glowing! Although I haven't seen you for years I can still feel your presence through the memory of your smile, if not for the darkness. Emergence. Spring -- emerge. My mind, the phenomenon, too intense. And it's blowing cold outside. I hate nature, especially cold, windy weather. Again -- spring -- emerge! Dissolve dukkha! Arrive atman! A life without love. The same loneliness, eternal, buried underneath the grass. Oh, the harmless tones of the birds, interweaving uniformly with my restless morning, making it more tender, less toilsome. I can't forget you. Please, help me. Your head deserves a crown made of gold and I will give you my tongue, my speech. Rise from the decay! Your power and greatness are expressed through your creation. I'm probably dreaming again. Pyknons: the unconsciousness of the morning, the slow dreadsome initiation of yet another day of decay. Time has ceased to exist, at least in my mind. Anxious, confused -- the surrounding being there but I can't sense it, searching through the depths of my memory trying to recall the habitual patterns defining human life. I'm trying to organize seemingly familiar sequences, merge them to some entity which I can grasp.
Repression. A word she often uttered. I wasn't blind. In her town, sports, politics and religion are the three passions of the uneducated. They are ugly to see, sources to everlasting discontentment, sucking the life out of her. The human being has never been fit for a human environment. Religion, their nearly all-consuming passion -- well, that and, as I mentioned, sports and politics -- mainly protestantic, 63 % to be correct, nothing more than an illusory veil to avoid life's incessant jarring, an insipid belief, yes, but effective. So boring to perceive; the emptiness filled with yet more emptiness, the void still there -- they are merely unaware of it, the uneducated, the habitual creatures we define as human beings. Ah! Humanity! Being human, being distracted from boredom and distress. Eating silly religious aphorisms for dinner. At least the sun is shining in Tennessee, situated in this land without a tradtional culture; this great nation, globally hegemonic in its cultural influence. If television and formative stimuli count as culture. Most likely not. In their ignorance, they do what they believe is right to do, not knowing how it is to be good. Virtue, self-mastery, postmodern understandings of the expressions of our now alienated inner selves and the virtue of counting everyone's interests equally. This is religion. Spiritual. USA's not religious; rather, it is ununified, entwined in its own illusions. The masses are hard to dissolve. She knows it. For her, it's a minor malaise. Masses necessitate uniformity, direction, a goal with which you can connect the masses into one unity. All equal, they think. Unable to conquer, they think. The pressure gathers a false form of collective, a huge, ugly mass, derived from stupid spontaneity. The external factors -- television, music, sports, religion, patriotism -- they are all superficialities whose sole purpuse is to unite and enslave the following masses of USA. But I'm worried. Anxious, even. I know nothing about the female nature, and even less about the youth of today, the coming generation.
The word was a ghost, ghastly. Life's puzzles can't be solved in the abstract. In May, the high time of spring, I awoke; arisen again, in spring, I will awake. Nostalgia -- the affective mirror of my past will yet again shed light on my existence. My roots are back, they are there, letting my self loose from the dream's narcosis. Bye, what could have been! From down under, my eyes can now rest on the redemptive stream of time, preserved from destiny's mephistolian kisses.
A new life, new thighs, new sentiments, new soil. I will find you. I will create anew.