Prose 1
Distraction, abstraction, slices of what we know or do not; how do I discover madness? Or is it simply present in our ever-changing perceptions of truth? Like a layer peeled away to find only another layer below, rambling on in jealous grammar, speaking in riddles. I find in myself the desire to achieve something I have not defined but feel obligated to pursue with never-ending vigor nonetheless. Where do I grasp the incontinent being of Knowledge? Is it clasped firmly in some screaming tomb that cries for life long dead? Or is it in the shapes and colors that assault my senses every moment I breathe, think, plead for humanity--to be real. Define real. That is as easy as defining truth, which is to say it is not so. It has been bastardized into jargon, a catch phrase on the daily news "What is the truth and why you should be afraid of human interaction. You may be hurt." I welcome the pain; it slides into my body to bring me face to face with fear--of failure, of the inability to still feel pain, to let the world affect me with its everyday idiosyncrasies that make it exactly what we call life. Or what we call love. Love, naturally being that which is unpredictable and ultimately terrifying because it requires a sacrifice of the parts in us we tremble to give voice. So we continue to live in our glass houses, looking out but staring aimlessly at those pleading to come into our lives. Do they exist for posterity, popularity, or our soul? Do we risk the scrapes and bleeding that would come of breaking through the sneering glass walls? |
