kazza_baby
Bluelighter
It has been quite a while since I have written,
and now my thoughts beg for some undressing.
I have been feeling more than the piercing insolence of having my life intruded upon by loss;
in fact,
I’m feeling nothing.
Yet now that I grasp and grapple with words that might unbind me from this indifference,
meaning,
in all its slippery sense,
trickles down my cheeks undaunted.
I have hinged myself to a timeless yet time-devouring languor,
and I,
this world-weary I,
open and close with it.
Vacancy in, vacancy out — how do I even know how to end and start?
I have achieved oversimplification.
You’ve seen all the pictures, have you not?
Still,
must you wonder why a smile could communicate only so little?
Pictures paint words,
nay,
they smother them,
and words henceforth hardly ever get human emotions correctly.
Semiotics cannot unravel the language of the heart -
there is simply more and much more in between the signifier and the signified. Significance.
My God. Even I love you’s lose their meaning once in a while, if not entirely.
I am numbed therefore I will die a willing victim.
Resurrect what idealistic fervor?
Ignite what poetic flame?
Is it not clear that by caring for a furtive fury I have incited all feelings to scuttle out of my body at once?
Sometimes I find myself wanting to have joined that mad scramble out of myself,
free of all the tapering of common sense and the tampering of judgment.
(Time plus tragedy: a stampede, if you dare)
Soul flees body but body is lodged to the ground.
Not wings, not wisdom, not words will save me from plunging once more into coldness.
Alas I strip naked before all of you.
As the letters hit the floor gently,
the words echo not - for I, this world-weary I, have nothing left to shed.
and now my thoughts beg for some undressing.
I have been feeling more than the piercing insolence of having my life intruded upon by loss;
in fact,
I’m feeling nothing.
Yet now that I grasp and grapple with words that might unbind me from this indifference,
meaning,
in all its slippery sense,
trickles down my cheeks undaunted.
I have hinged myself to a timeless yet time-devouring languor,
and I,
this world-weary I,
open and close with it.
Vacancy in, vacancy out — how do I even know how to end and start?
I have achieved oversimplification.
You’ve seen all the pictures, have you not?
Still,
must you wonder why a smile could communicate only so little?
Pictures paint words,
nay,
they smother them,
and words henceforth hardly ever get human emotions correctly.
Semiotics cannot unravel the language of the heart -
there is simply more and much more in between the signifier and the signified. Significance.
My God. Even I love you’s lose their meaning once in a while, if not entirely.
I am numbed therefore I will die a willing victim.
Resurrect what idealistic fervor?
Ignite what poetic flame?
Is it not clear that by caring for a furtive fury I have incited all feelings to scuttle out of my body at once?
Sometimes I find myself wanting to have joined that mad scramble out of myself,
free of all the tapering of common sense and the tampering of judgment.
(Time plus tragedy: a stampede, if you dare)
Soul flees body but body is lodged to the ground.
Not wings, not wisdom, not words will save me from plunging once more into coldness.
Alas I strip naked before all of you.
As the letters hit the floor gently,
the words echo not - for I, this world-weary I, have nothing left to shed.
