literature

You Met Me At A Strange Time..

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24 August, 2005
You Met Me At A Strange Time in My Life
In the dark, we're all the same. Massless and invisible, some sort of microscopic amoeba in the darkest pit of planetary history. Meaningless; usefulness in uselessness. Each 24 hours the sun will still rise and at the half-way point it will meet the dark, the moon its rep, slightly tentative in its emergence. As light and dark combine, the two astral bodies float purposefully in their orbits. All of this will happen regardless of whether you live or die, whether you are real or part of my imagination.
My imagination, it often runs on overtime. As the two astral bodies cross and exchange paths, as one becomes subordinate to the other, my mind wanders and makes up words. Bitter, resentful words that meander about and into each other, to form these maladaptive phrases and these letters, how fucking alien they really are.
Everything that is beautiful is going to die. Sometimes I like to just sit and observe everything my conscious awareness can absorb from my surrounding environment. People walking, their chubby legs blubbering with each painful step; their fat little offspring with dimples in their faces the size of moon craters. The disgusting filth and residue of what once was a healthy planet now crumbles under the weight of today's America.
Today's Europe.
Today's Asia.
Some days I'll just sit in a park. Sometimes I'll ingest psychoactive chemicals. One day, after eating some P. semilanceata mushrooms, I began to become one with the grass. It was the greenest grass I'd ever seen. Green it was, morphing into shapes and swirls, scalloped patterns engulfing each individual blade and causing them all to blend into one, to form this intricate visual playground for my head to play in.
I was one with that grass. If for only a slight moment in my life, I connected with something. Something deep, with feeling. The grass, it sighed as the gentle breeze bustled about, dodging and weaving through each blade. When the grass sighed, I sighed. It was a sigh of peace and inner-settlement. A sort of Zen.
It broke my heart when I saw a small child bounding through the grass. His life, uninterupted. His focus solely on personal pleasure. Not being old enough to break away from egocentricity; not being old enough to know better. I felt it, it felt like a pin prick, only not from one lonely pin but millions of them. Millions of firey hot and melting liquid metal pins that pierced and burned through the layers of my skin. The epidermis, the surface: the stratum corneum, stratum spinosum, the stratum basale.
I watched as the small child pulled a single solitary blade of grass, uprooting it and kidnapping it from its family of little grasses, mommy and daddy grasses and sibling grasses. And he picked another, and another...
With each pick of the grass, a prick of my soul. Pain devoured my being and I cried. I cried for the grass, I cried for the planet. I cried.
Stealthily, he darted off with his new prizes and soon enough dropped them somewhere, only to be forgotten. To rot and die, to burn from the inside out. The hot summer sun sweltered and killed the grass as it lay without water, without nutrition. Alone.
Everything that is beautiful is going to die. Watching it die is a process in the cycle of life, much like dying yourself is a process. For everything beautiful that dies, twenty millions ugly things are torn apart and reformed, fading shallow from the inside to the outside, from the veins to the outer layers, from the blood to the perspiration. Empty, hollow shells of things that never meant anything to me in the first place.
Empty, hollow shells of things I never considered important. Empty, hollow shells of things that looked like me. What kind of brutal fate was set for me?
What kind of supernatural giant was going to pick me from my home? What manner of gnostic being will turn me into a believer?
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