that he thought he was the shit was kind of hot. sure it was juvenile but so were they. frail children standing on the edge of the world about to fall off or in. and as they plunged he flailed aloofly. seemingly unaware of the ground. she bailed out and scraped a leg. he was quite seriously maimed. the jolt reverberated through the rest of his life. stagnant, angry, he blundered off into a slow and unremarkable oblivion.
brain like an anemone delicately reaching tendrils through dusky morning light and being trodden on by some wrong footed kid clamoring thru the rock pool. the kid is lack of sleep and also (relatedly) reversing into your coworker's car in the parking lot with everybody watching because you are running late. now half of your brain tendrils are squashed and you are also (relatedly) angry. you are alone now trying to do your job. a cardboard box in the breeze looks like a golden retriever rearing its head and is inexplicably terrifying. you reel around towards it and realise it's a cardboard box. this is what going mad must feel like you think. except maybe something a bit more terrifying and persistent. maybe this is how it begins. a portent. the golden retriever of cognitive decline...
a dark persona sitting like a fat black spider in the center of a web of deceptions, half truths, deflections, jokes that aren't jokes, broken promises, betrayals. yes dark, twisted, unforgiving but also weak. afraid but afraid above all else of himself. his true self in his heart of small black hearts and so so the web is spun. a good looking guy. who will he snare? who will call out into his abyss and be greeted by their echo and will they realise what calls back? life is short. we live amongst monsters. relationships are fever dreams the dangling chains, the tumors and ooze and inky tendrils of our true selves drag behind, below, out of sight.
Comments
Post a Comment