June 30, 2023I am better than I ever have been, yet frantically anguishing over an ill-composed hour—discovering bed-sheets laced with dryer lints, and while bed-time pleads to evacuate simplicity. Nightfall has yet to arrive. I get into the driver’s seat. The partitions break the conversations that blast through the finite loser’s escapades speaking nothing of merit. The language spoken is hidden; each word kept secret and in-wait for the next. Context. Embarrassing treacherously fashioned embraces lash out the notion of the sudden reconfiguration of loyalty brethren and having it all work out so nicely for everyone. To believe in another day? To stay fashioned and complicit with such tremendous barrel-fulls of deceit as though it were anticipated as acceptable? So tragic has the moments become for him to forlorn any arrogant exhaustion, or notion of incompleteness. Separate goes the tide. In an attempt to remedy future failure inextinguishable and indistinguishable from the familiar fragile lattice of the narrow-path. This goes un-debated. The state of un-denial is the currency in question—if you might look that up right now it might be a forthcoming, yet stable vestiture. Non-standardized. Chaliced vacancies on opinions balanced and coupled by faithless erosions on intrinsic value systems. Erudite castles kept hidden submerged emerged and became ridden by the standard wallows of implicate battles. Chaucer? Who knew? How could the deniability factor move upwards while the hideous complacency in sanity creep down? There is nothing more prescient and vulnerable than an immaculate legion of silence. No idea; no concept; no surreptitious respite could bleed into marketplaces and courtyards unknown which might then lead toward an inflation of independent commerce. The corpuscle canyon rate forms distinct patterns until the attitude has simplified the cortex region carrying disdain. The very notion that a replacement could be chattle-driven and yet somehow sworn to secrecy in order to overthrow the momentum of the indigenous ingrate is almost blasphemous. For and for whatever reason, the best writers are the one’s least most misunderstood. Their gentle complexities within their tirades of tyrannical valueless substance continue to vex congruent, but underground audiences kept unafraid of expansion. However, the design of this maze is to chase after no one, and to offer very little -much province to munch on. The beast weeps within the decorum of decadence. Fancy feasts figure out the forfeiture of fondu and quite clearly separate the caste from the dream. The earnest man in holy-suffering was never welcome here. The man can chastise his situation fluently until it one day might dawn upon him that maybe he should choose a different angle and focus there instead of proclaiming about his casual, casualty-free conclusions all across the watchtower and the charming castle-built walls. What was it again that led to his discomfort? Was it the visible current that swept over his interpretations of injustice? Or, was it the mortifying curdle of empty hope that transitioned his fatigue into potential embarrassment? No one could guess that there were many more diabolical wind-saving deviants leaning in to break the slide of integrity-ice for him. How much easier his life could only be if he could manage to settle down with the commonplace shrubbery and the ordinary? Wouldn’t it be less-worrisome and less-begrudgingly forecasted and foreseen as having difficulty to waltz along the wisdom of key-carrying shadow-keepers? Aren’t the trails already trudged upon, and well-worn deeply enough to provide the understood—the chopped ad trodden path to fulfillment? Isn’t it enough to glean upon the examples already set, and follow-suit? Why should life be so heavy? So departed? So burdensome to carry along any further drainage? Was not the obvious thing to do at this point to close up the bloody wound and directly structure around the pivot-point to turnaround? In sense-making scenarios? Quite, YES! absolutely. But in glancing backward at the trials of pain—forward toward the unknown and lifting curses; were it not but for a moment to collect on the trial by trial errors and failures the grievances of firelight could have long been extinguished, even in themselves by now. Should any man at half-way’s grace stop? Or? Should they make it for another go, and really churn up the blood-bath of self-hatred butter? Where did the harmony go? Where is the good-shepherding in that? Who was shepherding him and how was he to solicit compassion from strangers, or any longer from anyone about in his life? The sad and narrow trail that was chosen had little to do with being accepted. All of protruded envy and scorn; bitterness and self-loathing; dispersed captivation’s distraction. His best-encountered compatriots turned nothing more than into a betrayal-bunch of conniving cowards—out to save only their sad identities of self, and yet, who understood the legal playbook better than most and could easily hop onto the societal train-escape—not forgetting to leave a nice, soggy doormat behind for anyone to entertain themselves by: watch my dog. There was no rest for these carnivorous execrations; their comforts built lavishly reeked of greed and pride, but glitzed large and loudly enough for onlookers to embrace. The neglect for completeness allowed for their enchantments of slothful coordination. Life was not meant to be a thinking-person’s game, from their vantage point; life was meant to indulge in the experiences brought forth by the external, material and physical world. Nothing was not everything for them. The idea of “nothing” meant hollowed, debasing impoverishment and slow, soft criticism from others. Dreams had a very dismal place—and they were not meant for their reality. The code they followed, was in fact? The only code to follow…in their mind’s? The code meant very little risk. In my own mind? The risk was the grandest, feigned suicide-attempt of them all—in order to get; to have; to lose; to win; to compare and to contrast. A life lived for a pissing-match would comfort them. To see how much could be compiled and adorned by another conquest; to become reborn with masquerading truths; to manipulate and overthrow compulsory addictions and notions of behavior. To erase and leave behind the weakest link. Competition was the base of wit—convolution was the meristem of success. Reactionary was the sponsored lifestyle.
-Poewem
As you age you only get better at manipulating time. Thank you for your support in creative writing and the creative, short-story process. Here is your opportunity to contribute to the fulfilling and lifelong commitment toward the English language! It gets better!