Sunday, April 15, 2007

Intentionally Unedited Emo (Don't Say I Didn't Warn You)

You've always been untouchable. And everybody's been comfortable with it. You never gave anyone, the least of being me, opportunity. Which is why I approach you on every level of communicative consciousness I can utilize. Yet even on the alternates, you are aloof, radiating the heady scent of untouchability through wire and wave. Maybe I really have become addicted to your aura emanating from your eyes and sighing out the edges of your softly-spoken words to counter the brutal brashness that defines me. Yet my nature insists on not resisting, of denying my own noise just to listen to silence, in case your soft-spokenness gently vibrates the air with its brand of alternated, parallax widsom, which I will patiently listen to, whether or not my ideologies scream at me for doing so. If only I could find the way to turn you tangible. Yet something in me seems to enjoy the neurosis of keeping the intangibility the way it is, to always leave me with the longing and suffering that allows one to write such nonsensical, yet intrapersonally of the utmost importance forms of literature. Still another part of me operates under the extremely opposite idea that behind the opacity of all your barriers there is the tiniest spark of a desire to one day be tangible, to descend the millions of steps that have placed you on the peak of your own purgatoric mount. So here I am, pulling a Florentino Ariza, waiting my fifty-one ears for an answer to the question I know I have not asked at least to my knowledge, though some deny that I have not done so. Probably it's because I'm afraid of the accompanying change that would occur, as damnant quod non intelligunt, gnothi seauton and so on, to shorten the thousands of years of an apparent phobia of change. I've been told to wait countless times, to make sure this is simply not a paradigm upheaval, one of the most misconceptionalized psychological phenomena for man, with his capacity for dramatic fear in knowability. That there will be a moment when thought will become reality, filtered from the mind to the brain and consequently to the very tips of one's appendages, synchronizing itself with physical reality and physical activity. This passivity is a curse. Or is it a trial, the reward of each being the soundness of reason increasing with every moment a decision is not made? Yet temporality also makes me suffer, for there is the lingering paranoia that in a different geographical disposition another entity thinks horrifyingly similar thoughts. And should that entity reach his marshmallow point first and circumstances turn him into the Florentino Ariza who comforts your sorrowed head with a lap cushioned by promises to bring my heaven to your earth, for you have already brought your heaven to my earth.

Who would I be in the quarantine, then?

Your subtleties
They strangle me
I can't explain myself at all

-All-American Rejects, "It Ends Tonight"

posted by Ocnarf @ 7:03 PM   2 have spoken

The Keeper

Franco Regalado

"Scriptito ergo sum."

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Rhetoric