RANDOMINATRIX
it's
been a long time since it was said. it's now even as if that which
should/would/could have been said no longer needs to be said. or
escapes necessity. strangely so, as everything that wanted to be said
needed to be said in order to elaborate upon that which by necessity
could not be left unsaid. precipating some insight into what to say
next. something yet uninstructed, dying to dive head first into a
proper light source.
an
unrelenting miscreant. a guiding discordance between a freak and an
abomination; both moving slavishly towards the foul honesty of the
light.
the
unnecessary reclaiming it's necessity. you ask; what has transpired?
at mid-day for example, you step off your bicycle and sit down
between a tree and a fenced-in sculpture in volkspark friedrichshain.
you start to list personal transformations, changes you willingly,
but more than anything else, unwittingly might have undertaken. a
subtle coming of something relevant that somehow caught you unawares.
something so relevant that it refuses to reveal it's importance by
any other means than cold-bloodedly installing itself under your
skin, penetrating some deep recess in your body, a useless room
behind a tired organ, getting jammed there not unlike how a stone
thrown blindly into a distance will get jammed between something
unknown, and likely, a second unknown. thrown into you several years ago
by someone, or a force, likely with hands, believing they were aiming
for oblivion. into a dead sea that would come alive in one giant
undulation, before swallowing the stone whole. reclaiming it's
suspended silence, again enveloping the opportunity of living it's
utmost cliché, it's most romantic potential, actually not being
experienced by poets and painters alike, straw men and lovers by the
sea, fledglings spreading their wings tryingly in a barren corner of
your interior. born in confusion, thinking the ripples fluttering
across the retina as something actually belonging outside the eye's
capacity.
ocean
you
know it when they say:
quiet
tide
there,
unremembering, the stone begins to move. then, lagging behind, you
follow, devilmaycaringly wanting to claim knowledge of the movement,
saying "what" it is. it is you, is it not? trained in
observing the dead and undead, trained to know about this that you
seemingly cannot know enough about: what memories are made of, who it is
that remembers, and why.
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