Wednesday, November 28, 2012

1882 : On the road to hell

He woke up and found that he was floating above his own body, the carcass below looked like a grotesque representation of everything he had ever resented.

He had lived a long life,  but just like desire, which always comes in nine parts, his life had for forever been infinitesimally divided between conflicts and constraints.

As he glided and waddled around, the naked truth gleamed, and clarity occurred to him…..not one of his parts had ever achieved any meaning, not one of his commitments had ever seen any consequence, and not one of his seeds had ever germinated on fertile grounds.

It was a half life, almost like the eponymous game, and probably twice as radio active….wasted today, forgone tomorrow.

He could not marvel, that though he had been so abruptly released of his bodily confines, his mind continued to carry such a gargantuan weight….the gazillion pound lug of a thousand unfinished poems…and part by part notwithstanding, the death of a heavily fragmented truth.

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