Monday, April 20, 2009

Goodbye Ink and Paper Quatre

Leave it alone, I was only singing. Melodies and harmonies are dripping over my palace colorfully. The worlds I build are growing. Thinking too much.

I recognize you as me.

I recognize me for who I am.

I could not discern which demons were let into the landscape of my world.
I recognize then as what should have been.

I could not make the distinction between reality and fancy.

I could not even begin to undo the damage.

Gliding by the pines. I balanced myself on a branch. Summer seeped into every part of my soul. Desperately inebriated by the glow of the setting sun. I could not wait for it to go away. Evening unleashes a release of inhibition. I heard my name. I gave the dusty hiding place away with a muffled giggle.

After a very small struggle, I surrendered. Maybe I gave up too easily. How pleasant it is to be amongst the wildflowers. They shout for me to imitate them. I sway when the powerful southern winds entreat me.He crouches down poised like a wolf, almond eyes witholding pieces of himself. Drawing the curtains so that the light can't penetrate the window of his soul. He told me the names of all the different grasses. He told me lies, he had no idea what they were called. I studied his face not the ground. His expression was far removed the surroundings, intent on the one in front of him. The wind is against you, it moves your curtains, I see in. I am bare, There is no need for me to hide what is within. I act sheepishly, that is because I know not what I am doing. Why hide? In this innocent place of mind there is nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to have to keep to myself. When things are good, they should be shared, and I have no secrets or regrets.

The sun moves down across from us, it remains, we turn away. As I turn, my linen dress catches on a thorny bush. The muddy dress is now light brown, though it started out a pale off white. I check it for a puncture, it is unharmed. I face upwards, the faint last rays of sun still burn my eyes. We walk in opposite directions. He heads peacefully east, beginning anew, erasing the time. Sunrise. I sprint west, going fast, going nowhere fast. I end up alone, in the grasses, a dusty heap, giving up on the chase for a setting sun.

I wipe the blood off of my cuts with a leaf, I pinch the wounds to cleanse them. I become an expert in cleaning their messes for them. I examine my bruises, such variations in the shades. There are many bruises, but they heal much quicker than scatches. A purpley monstrosity takes over my left knee. I thank God I came away with only bruises in the beginning. If only they had been painful enough for me to falter in continuing.

Time refuses to be still. More darkened adventures like these ensue. I stand upright after I take my final tumble. My dress is only shreds and caked with black earth. My chin points left, my eyes focus down. I shift my position to better view the criminal behind me. There is a stab wound in my chest. I cringe. I weakly lay down again, feebly clinging to a dying world which drains the last drops of light for their own. I writhe. Light up a new world with them. The last semblance of my childhood gleaming brightly for the amusement of the newest eastern star. Don't burn out too quickly. I fade away.

The sun is down. It does not rise again.

I am not really so alone, Fernando Pessoa and The Book of Disquiet, read it and you'll see.
Build high walls around the garden of your mind.
"Literary alter egos were popular among early twentieth-century writers: Pound had Mauberley, Rilke had Malte Laurids Brigge, and Valery had Monsieur Teste. But no one took their alter ego as far as Pessoa, who gave up his own life to confer quasi-real substance on the poets he designated at heteronyms, giving each a personal biography, psychology, politics, aesthetics, religion, and physique. Alberto Caeiro was an ingenuous, unlettered, unemployed man of the country. Ricardo Reis was a doctor and classicist who wrote Horace-like odes. Álvaro de Campos, a naval engineer, was a bisexual dandy who studied in Glasgow, traveled to the Orient, and lived outrageously in London."
You thought I didn't know. That is telling. You underestimate me. You know, I run the risk of seeming pedantic when I behave true to my pure form.
I follow Pessoa, what you see is an illusion, a genuine lie.
I'd rather be despised for who I am pretending to be.
I keep mine hidden. You'll never believe me so, why don't you find out for yourself?
The Sanest days are mad.
Sick down to my heart, that's just the way it goes.
They know the full extent of your distress, they kneel and pray and they say: "long may it last" .
Why don't you find out for yourself?
Bad scenes come and go, for which I must allow.
Don't rake up my mistakes, I know exactly who they are.
I've been stabbed in the back so many many times.

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