Nothing original
I wish I had worked my way through a bad night before laying this out. I wish the day hadn't been so normal.
Actually, if what had happened tonight had been abnormal, it might have been good, instead of fleeting. Passing simplicity is the very heart of ennui. The entrenched hatred of self that radiates from sameness. The eroded, cold, stone face of routine. Those subdued oscillations in the imperfect walls of the daily grind.
It does grind, doesn't it? It sheers your horizons smooth. Traversing a commute. Having a shift. Repetitive stress injury for the animus.
I laugh as I sink my blurry edged persona into an ongoing story told in pictures and soundtrack. I dip my nose into a book like the shaft of an arrow becomes one with the deadly, razor sharp head. Complicit in the murder of my life—which should by all rights be soaring through unpredictable winds. I should be at the heads of hurricanes and the tails of tornadoes.
The portal of art is viable as egress only to those who exist already in a world of unknowns. This life is hive-like; where every moment is another mindless drone eating the same honey as the last. Moments speak through obscure dance, relaying banal truths with understood poetics. A metronomic precision that abuses expression and ossifies every opportunity for the fantastic.
I don't even know how to become a bohemian. Each simple feint at easy, inexpensive tragedy is seen through and countered by a riposte of legal or financial burden. All my outlaw inclinations eye exciting futures through a lens of privilege and possession. Iron chains might be lightened with gilded ones.
I need to winnow my desires away until only the true longing remains. The thing I really want. Do we actually learn what-it-is-we-want by losing all we have? Or is belly-want more alive and engaging than brain-want? That riverbottom trawl where silt and mire dredge at my eyes. The subterranean search for meaning that flings rocks in the face might be a boiling pot of wisdom.
Or it might be the sudden rush of next-best-alternatives drawing every possibility as divinely better than this. This moment. Does the end to desire represent a state of perfection, or is Nirvana the happiness of having nowhere lower to go?
Should I race to the bottom or grasp at the top? Is this repetition of the day a sleight-of-hand maneuver to hide the understanding those of no means possess, or would that sudden fall into fiscal martyrdom leave me gasping for air, seeing greener grass over every fence even one step away?
Actually, if what had happened tonight had been abnormal, it might have been good, instead of fleeting. Passing simplicity is the very heart of ennui. The entrenched hatred of self that radiates from sameness. The eroded, cold, stone face of routine. Those subdued oscillations in the imperfect walls of the daily grind.
It does grind, doesn't it? It sheers your horizons smooth. Traversing a commute. Having a shift. Repetitive stress injury for the animus.
I laugh as I sink my blurry edged persona into an ongoing story told in pictures and soundtrack. I dip my nose into a book like the shaft of an arrow becomes one with the deadly, razor sharp head. Complicit in the murder of my life—which should by all rights be soaring through unpredictable winds. I should be at the heads of hurricanes and the tails of tornadoes.
The portal of art is viable as egress only to those who exist already in a world of unknowns. This life is hive-like; where every moment is another mindless drone eating the same honey as the last. Moments speak through obscure dance, relaying banal truths with understood poetics. A metronomic precision that abuses expression and ossifies every opportunity for the fantastic.
I don't even know how to become a bohemian. Each simple feint at easy, inexpensive tragedy is seen through and countered by a riposte of legal or financial burden. All my outlaw inclinations eye exciting futures through a lens of privilege and possession. Iron chains might be lightened with gilded ones.
I need to winnow my desires away until only the true longing remains. The thing I really want. Do we actually learn what-it-is-we-want by losing all we have? Or is belly-want more alive and engaging than brain-want? That riverbottom trawl where silt and mire dredge at my eyes. The subterranean search for meaning that flings rocks in the face might be a boiling pot of wisdom.
Or it might be the sudden rush of next-best-alternatives drawing every possibility as divinely better than this. This moment. Does the end to desire represent a state of perfection, or is Nirvana the happiness of having nowhere lower to go?
Should I race to the bottom or grasp at the top? Is this repetition of the day a sleight-of-hand maneuver to hide the understanding those of no means possess, or would that sudden fall into fiscal martyrdom leave me gasping for air, seeing greener grass over every fence even one step away?
posted by Maximillian @ 11:19 PM
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