remember 11/15/07

Remember 11/15/07.

I am beside myself—a far cry from that curable valley where all hope and serenity shine with the faintest light at the bottom of a glass bottle. Its been five years. Five years since I could say, “hello ground, these are my feet, and there is the end of the sidewalk; I am glad to have met you, but ambitions wasted on frivolous inconsistencies of success are better left un-tread, for I have a future to attend to.” I suppose it was a purpose, some slight self contained bliss I was foolishly ignorant of. It gave me reason, it also gave me death. I have become a whisper in the branches now, she was such a subtlety dearly missed. I've grown old. Old like the land—a wasted harlot, furrowed, tired, gray. Older then the willow that weeps for itself, older then the wind that batters my home, older then snails that see such simple things, things I could have lived without but are all that matter now. The last time I saw it was in the shiver of a mirror. That grotesque sneer, a pirouette of misfortune that hummed its own sad song, a serenade bent of some vile infectious night, that lay twisting and turning, spilling over me, a wicked and contemptuous greed that ran its course through my veins and poisoned me with all the aesthetics of a false joy. And now I am forever sad. For people I once called friends. For people in my family. For the girl I could have loved. For the people I harmed. For the depraved communion of man. And most shameful of all for myself. I have become who I am, and who I am is not who I am. Nobody knows. They say, many things most are lies. For everything is above and below.

I should commit myself to the utmost certainly of pervasiveness—the laughable cabal of yay sayers deluded by the very philosophy which I proposed—that of lemmings and spiders. Frankly I already have, we all have. I am utterly bemused why man must interact with itself. For any logical individual would recognize the invasive exploitation of his own race and be repulsed. Which ever ends justify what ever means serves as a illogical compulsion to hone any apprehensiveness to the finer points of man, where the blissful “good neighbor” visage serves more justice than the honest wife beater. Man is insatiably greedy. However much I divulge upon this it serves no end and grants me nothing other then the artificial light to endow my transitory happiness. The truth belongs to God. So won't you catch for us the foxes.