A menagerie of troubles

  I am only a couple years in life. Yes, I suppose I have existed for a bit more than a decade and a half, but a sort of dulled and ignorant life it was; I knew no real sorrow, and no real joy. It was a languid and peaceful nothing.

Then.

  Then. Then, some raw and unabashed beast gouged that gray veil. All the anythings, and everythings, and somethings and such, unimpeded by that misty cloth, stampeded on my psyche - a parade of operatic torment. It was a time of newness, and newness of life was a time of relative good.

  Recently, however, the more acquainted I become with that impetuous chimera, the more all those somethings, everythings, anythings, and such shriek and screech. Crying and reverberating, threatening the little innocent sense I have left.

Of this I say no more.

  Although I fear that odious beast cannot rest, I will try not to acknowledge it. There are many words and stories to tell, but they ricochet of each other, and make expression a cumbersome and pained task. The hubris, the ambiguity, the lonesomeness, the Quixotism, the familiarity, the discovery, the glee, the boorishness, the fraternity, the anxiety, the lugubriousness, the dearth of proper eloquence and clarity, the ambivalence, the loathing, [here one could place any sort of construct or idea – emotional, sensible, or abstract] the . . . It is a frigidly conflagrating place, my mind.

   I am through and done. And I am weary.

Currently Reading The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg By Carl Sandburg see related

This is my Dido; this is my Perseus; this is my Hephaestus

Currently Listening Lunatico By Gotan Project see related

The pallor of naught

I do not know what has befallen me. It strikes with no declaration of intent or cause, but it most assuredly strikes. It has robbed me of myself, or, a certain portion of myself (And I fear I am not the only one who misses it).

There is no remedy for this sort of sickness – it is to be homesick with everyone and everything you’ve ever known within reach. Or, in the early sun and whispered wind, to be weary of the day. It turns my stomach in such impossible knots; so, perhaps, I should exorcise my unhappy demons, if they by exorcised or not, is an experiment fully worth doing – even if it be for my restful purposes only. And surely you have not noticed it?  No longer can I share my off-kilter sort of mannerisms and bring the joy I once wrought, however wont I may be to do so.

Maybe I’ll revive some of the old spirits of my heyday with a kilt.

No?

A pink kilt, mayhap?

It should not matter. All of this should be immaterial. I have vowed to myself in unuttered breaths that I shall never breach myself – if I, truly am what I see, I will make no changes or alterations. I would play no false. But, now I see a transmogrification in my juxtaposed countenance, and I feel it doesn’t suit me.

My reason for disliking this fleck of newness (my affliction) is not unknown to me. In my good few years, changing and wending my path, no closer friend have I had than the one I keep in company now; I had never sought such a companion (I thought such good things were of a fanciful time long passed), and would regret the lost opportunities if our friendship fails. As of late, however, our bond, so burdened with the stress of being associated with me, has waned and cascaded into disrepair; which is in no way my fault – time plays many tricks, and entropy is favored.

 O, the jovial lamenting and lavish penury of my bane: entropy!

So, now, my plaint is fed by the vertiginous unraveling of my visage whilst it spins and spurs in counter, revealing one who may bring ruin to all I ever held with warmth. And the blackbird of despair sings my gray and orotund dirge - a terrible sound that would shatter the ears of the deaf. A new threnody that would keep the Phoenix smoldering in its ashes `till the wind stole them off to the farthest corners of the Earth - a new threnody, to be sung through all of that ever was, is, or is to be; never sleeping, nor resting, nor living, always haunting; until the bird flies to its horrible home in the hellish, bloodied skies of Hades.

Then the bird will forget.

Currently Reading Bulfinch's Mythology - Deluxe Edition By Thomas Bulfinch see related

Like a duck!

It appears to me that I follow cycles.

I had recently spent time in glory, in fantastic and conflagrative stupendousness.

I was the proverbial best.

But, now, it seems my dichotomous ways have set in; it is time to squalid, pathetic and lame.

How unfortunate.

Ye Olde Fashioned Whore

My eye is swollen.

. . . As is your mother's uterus.

From the illegitimate baby that suckles the nutrients from the umbilical cord.

Because she is a harlot.

A cheap harlot.

How promiscuous.

Currently Gaming Okami By Capcom see related