Jan 21, 2012

roil

So, I have a knack for depressing woe-is-me navel gazing bullshit. It seems to be the only thing I can get out of my fingertips. I would much rather write about the  search for knowledge, tales of discovery and novelty. Sadly, the only words that will come out are dreadfully abhorrent. There is no saving grace to these stanzas, they only seem to curl back into themselves, multiplying their pitifulness with each new sentence. 

If I wish to write about the enticing, it seems I must get the repulsive out of the way first. Winston Churchill, in one of his more clarified, uninebriated moments, said, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

Here’s an entry in my repulsive slant entitled Roil

If past existences preceded this one, and each return is embarked upon with a lesson to learn, I must have been at command of the forces of contentedness during my previous instances. Legions of supplicants scurried between the wills of my hands, wants gently plucked from the air around my head and dutifully reflected back into me by the perfect mirror, the essential muse. Only this would make sense of the latest stop in the long road home, this disturbing vessel nuanced with indisposition. 

If I was once a baron and have been relegated to beggar, then there is a trite path to find. It has twists and instances unavailable to the chalet residents and ambrosia drinkers. The thicket is devoid of accompaniment, survival is not guaranteed. Nights spent curled in the exposed roots of dead trees are intrinsic. Eventually, the shoes wear out and are discarded. Calluses grip the soles and palms, densifying the senses. Anguish comes and goes with the sun and stars. 

To what end is it? Why settle so stagnant simply because I boiled before? The inconsistency, lack of manual or instruction, the absurd lack of balance rattles any hopes of stillness I can hope to find. The extremes only favor one end, the gilded, joyful spectrum has no competition from the naught, the pain. The pros lie on one side and the cons the other, no effort to mix the two however slightly. Winner has taken all and more, not just what was in the pot. He took the pot, he took the table, he took the deed to the gambling den and seized the property around it. He stands on the loser’s neck and pours warm bourbon on the fresh cigar burns foisted on his lined forehead. Winner leans in close and drinks in loser’s last breath right out of his lungs. 

The audacity of the merry champions, their utter lack of decent descent back onto the earthly plane of hills and valleys, summers and winters, is unpunished. Gravity only pulls down, there’s no opposing force to greet me at the bottom and take me to the top. This unilateral mode of life is perfectly logical, but it claws my nerves like an imperceptible cactus needle, burrowed into nerve bundles, sending jolts of pain whenever the skin brushes against the slightest hindrance. 

Being able to see the spoils of the victors is no motivator, it casts harmful rays of sunlight on a doleful painting that would do better to age in the dark. The curtains are to be shut, but are thrown open for the sake of the adjacent prized canvas’ triumphant exhibition. The irrational unevenness is unapologetic.

No balance is found, no chaos either. Just maddening carrots dangled in front of some and endlessly fed to others with no plans for rotating those who should be so lucky with the panting wrecks. They stay lucky, and urge the desperate to just keep hoping that they too will be fed. This is a cruel thing to do, to urge the dying man out of his deathbed for one last dose in hopes he’ll reverse age and leap back into virility. 

Paradox and labyrinth, both unable to be considered healthy. Both comprise the entirety of civilization. There is more to elucidate in this world, but it pales in the immediacy of this anguishing lottery of ease and hardship. Nothing else confronts, shakes me to emotional vigor so fervently.

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