5th of December II (pt. 5)

[Sepia]

Breathe. Breathe through me, you are me, I am your exhalation and the other one of us is you inhaling. Did we want a future when we sang no future, when the years didnt seem as real as they do now but now comes the exercises in breath. Here she comes, we can see her head now we can see it, the birth and the death, simultaneous creatures living in each others shadow, the same but different, yin and yang, a simple

I will die of a tumor first I think or a smoking related disease, yeah, that will fit the bill as well and it will be a hard one and it will be a struggle but as the machine fades

I will fade and there is a greater absence than when we were born and we seek the oblivion of memory, we seek the fade, the holy word and the indifferent world, the sensation of a hawk lifting from your arm, the sensation of the first plateau, this trip of life so beautifully unenhanced, so perfectly normal

Where would Crowley have gone? If he lived a couple of decades more, what if Crowley saw us through the war? Where is our world going where no one is seeing, where do we set aside our ideas ideals and concepts and play with the rest of them, giant retarded kids made of plastic, pliable

I am not who I am, I am someone different, something none have ever seen or will ever see but I am not me, I am me contained and I dont know why because all I would ever want to be is ethereal information, like gas or rain
I never woke up as myself, I was the body that Gregor Samsa once woke in, nothing more, a shattering of hearts

I was never me, I never chose to be me, I chose to be me from recollections of myself from when I was sixteen, what I wanted to be and what I remembered myself being because time is a bubble but I dont think the deja vus are memories of our future but we have those but they feel different, they feel worse, harder edges, a sense of dread and paranoia creeping up alongside them and in there the memory is found, in a flash but accurate like smell, this feeling like the first time

who is holding you except you?

When the warrior is broken, who will step in? Will it be the priest, armed with his faith or the magi, armed with his knowledge, will it be the whore, the uncorruptible, will it be the chef, the corruptible, the librarian, the waiter the assistant the janitor

Who will follow in his steps? Who will pick up the sword and continue the fight, who of me, who of us, all our aspects will accept what the warriors once did or are these traditions so watered out that when push comes to me, will reason win in the end? Even now? Is it reason that will break it as we realize we are somewhere else now and the warrior is no longer needed or is it madness that will tell us that they cannot defeat us now, now we strike those who wished for peace

but prepared for war

Like Hell attacking Heaven, here was the war born anew, within continents within unions within countries within counties, there is always something that we are looking at while doing our preordained tasks

and that is us, that is me and everyone I know, something that makes us human, a boring obersvation but a truth, no epiphanies or perfect epitaphs, no simple hits of wisdom, quotes of wit to be quoted for social redemption and popularity

it will end in grey, it will fade and blur out, it will have the effect of being cancelled out, disappearing into the shadows, mortal beings, astronomers astrologers three kings went to a barn and three men came out but this was a new god wasnt it why would the old gods want their servants those filthy stinking dirty terrist arabs to hail a new king or did the put someone else there had they given birth to a fake messiah these three men or was it witchcraft

something that didnt float, weighted down with stones, a splash is heard in the thames but never seen, what do they want to show us, intrepid ghosts of this past as they commit an atrocity to god

century after century

They chose, they made a choice, every cautionary tale you ever heard of made the bolder the stupider the riskier choice, the one with the most profit and so did every other tale you ever heard, the just landed on the flipside, the made splashes, there were no military style dives as we went for the pearls of life down the cliffs being watched by horny mothers, drunk at noon on goblets they wear twixt their fingers and they are practiced in the art of deception

but here we go, here go the ripples like when your toe shoots up through the water descending into air, growing in impossible angles but perfect

like a death

[Triple Zero]

Wow. I don't often have the time/patience/state of mind to read your writings, but I'm really glad I did this time

Of course I don't understand most of what you're on about, but it's very beautiful.

I kinda wish you'd participate in the rest of the board some time? Get to know you a bit? You've been here so long Do you read the other threads btw? I suppose you do, otherwise why find a random corner on a random forum on the internet to post your writings

[Cramulus]

Your writing is haunting and beautiful.

I was never me, I never chose to be me, I chose to be me from recollections of myself from when I was sixteen, what I wanted to be and what I remembered myself being because time is a bubble but I dont think the deja vus are memories of our future but we have those but they feel different, they feel worse, harder edges, a sense of dread and paranoia creeping up alongside them and in there the memory is found, in a flash but accurate like smell, this feeling like the first time

who is holding you except you?

this is my favorite part

it reminds me of
my first dance with anarchy and authority
the first time I swore revenge against something intangible
the taste of my first kiss

[Hoser McRhizzy]

Wow. I don't often have the time/patience/state of mind to read your writings, but I'm really glad I did this time

Of course I don't understand most of what you're on about, but it's very beautiful.

also that.^

My captain obvious post of the day:  Your writing has always felt closer to guided meditation to me.  I don't mean that droning 'now you feel the energy draaaaain from your feeet - you're going to find your power animal' stuff, but something simpler.  Maybe it's just the way most people read poetry...  What I mean to say is that if I decide to read one of your OPs, it means I have the stamina to go with you for awhile, drawing no conclusions, accepting that what look like tangents are actually the plot.  Feels more like suspension of disbelief in a theatre than anything else.  Either way, the first word and sentence of this piece made me want to give that bit of feedback.

I hope you keep writing.