If we get to be directors of our own show, what would we do with our lives? Pretty much a mess. What we do we undo. What we don't do we undo. Undone either way, I would rather be undone without having done, because that would be the right thing to do. AND WE'RE DONE. We are so...done. CUT
Lights are fire, desire, orbs, globes, intelligence, burning pain, knives that cut through the onion skins, one skin painfully after one, to expose layer after layer of the self. "This does not show you in the best light," they say. A light cast properly will bring out the real mettle of man but cast in a bad light, the best mettle looks rusty and insignificant, or the worst of humanity can appear pristine and virtuous. I think it's not the light's fault. Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. If one sees ugly it is because he "sees" ugly, and who's the judge of beauty and ugliness. There is no ugliness, only ugliness of vision.
To some, beauty in a woman is sharpened teeth, filed to a perfect point and even that is less bizarre than piercing every perceivable vulnerable and delicate body part?never heard of pierced elbows or fingers?both warped and wacky but each in its own right...a light. What is beauty really? Mine is just skin deep. I wear makeup to hide the real me. A bleak picture of a very very old soul. Beaten by stormy seas and the harsh elements of emotions within. But there is an inner beauty, inside that prune of a body that's kept bloated with coffee and cigarettes, there is a heart that sees beauty in everything. What most people perceive as ugly is just...different. The phantom of the opera. Behind that perfect shiny mask there is real beauty. The raw beauty of a face exposed. Devoid of its lies and pretenses. The real beauty then is in the ugliness of truth. And...CUT
Camera: A device that captures emotions, renders them timeless, but also frozen, senseless. Random acts of stupidity. That moment in time becomes immortal. I prefer motion; each time you replay it, it tells a different story. One moment you think she's crying, the second time you watch you see her inward laugh, that hollow rasp of dry leaves when fall on them crocodile tears. The real crying is never visible. It's deep within the innermost onion skin. No camera, at least in the conventional sense, can capture that crying. It takes one to know one. And when it does take that one, that one is so done and done with. Undone. Cameras are invaders, paparazzi, perverts intruding on our emotions and in a freeze frame of their galleries and glory. Applaud for the starving child staring with his big black shiny eyes at you from that award winning photo. The award goes to the captor of his hunger and need and exposure and he remains hungry and exposed. Cameras are breeders of vanity, insanity, narcissism. They are liars, never know the truth. The camera does lie. The camera deceives and we perceive what is not. And we're done...CUT.
Action: What we convince ourselves to be the right thing to do. We do what we have to do and are undone and had we done what we wanted to do we would've been undone anyway, so actions are already undone without even being done. Every action leads to a reaction and the reaction will redo the undoing.
So what's the conclusion of all this rambling, which is not by the way a page from a software tutorial manual no matter how uncanny the resemblance?and by the way those manuals seriously need redoing.
This is life. The real McCoy, not the acts we have to play to convince ourselves and rationalize everything we want to do as the only choice and the correctest thing to do. Fuck correctness. Fuck bizarreness. We're already fucked senseless by our bullies and our own demons that we have no desire to even fuck a real person. This is the one command that will undo everything and nothing can be redone after that because life is no fucking software. The reality can't be undone. This my dear Watson is the ugliness of humanity. That one thinny you wouldn't want to cross. Believe me. And...we're done. CUT.
The twisted logic we convince ourselves with that we're right! What's right? There are no rights, only responsibilities and duties. Rights are the carrot they dangle in front of us to get things done. This is the ultimate test of how much light you see at the end of the tunnel, the light is always at the end of the tunnel. Well I'll be damned, why don't I get a tunnel with energy savers? Why does it always have to be a tunnel from a Steven King work? Well reality is kind of like a Steven King work but there are no red shoes from Oz that will take us back to Kansas. Every time we go back, it's a different Kansas. We go through thinny after thinny and each time it's dvu. Same place, same faces, but they don't recognize us. They think we're insane. They see past us like the clan of the cave bear looked past Ayla as if she did not exist. They put a death curse. They have that look. The look. I know that look It's the" whoa-this-one's-mad-as-a-hatter look. You see behind their masks of pretense of understanding and agreement. Behind those are their real emotions, saying you're a nut. And your skull needs cracking. They laugh at what they don't understand. I laugh because I do...and cry inside. I'm the deep well of wisdom that others drink from and prosper and I drink from and miserably choke on. Because no wisdom cures the inner wounds, the burns of unanswered questions, the bite of loneliness in a world that knows so little about even less. And...we're done. CUT
O Oh! Sorry. Was this conclusion too long? It's actually just the beginning. The P.S. is the real thing and the letter is just a beating about the bush. Beating of silent drums heard only to one's own ears, shaking one's existence and unbeknownst to those even sitting nearest. The warble of the thinny that creeps into your brain and clouds all else, you can't think or function, you get sucked into the thinny and if you're lucky, you get some brain function back on the other side.
Those who see on the inside know it all. And that, my dear Sir, is a real camera. The heart is the camera that captures the truth.
And we're done...CUT.
© Copyright 2017 Amy Saleh. All rights reserved.
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