The Intrigue or Self-Infliction

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
Being alone is ever so miserable.....

Submitted: July 25, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 25, 2008

A A A

A A A


Estranged.

Is it of choice?

From whom? What?

When yearn do I the venue of resolve – where but the ecstasies of truth blight the midnights of misery?

Are we but to treat the trivialities of woe and oppression as the frivols of superfluous comfort; can not the mundane of daily defeat transcend the “irk” and “some”, the “bother”? How from frivol is it derived the validity of rant and isolation?

Who is this “we” of which I speak – longed for, surely, as reverberated the most minute of solitude’s pulsations? Mistook I the dampness of their breath for that of oceans wind, humidity but the heat of limbs cajoling; the silk roughness of skin – sand? See I but the map of restless groping: the latitudes of pleasure, the longitudes of rapture – am I but the cartographer; doomed forever to label sand and rock, yet never allowed lofty dunes to pillow discomfiture or dealt my bliss of breath on scalding rock – those seeming to numb emotion?

And when succumb I to the faltering of endurance? How then do I act as confront me the fruits of solitude’s denials – expectation transcending truth?

Ever so torturous is the filth which buoys me in brimming capacity; but as falls its tidal mark – escaping the plasticity of its confines – I seem only to weigh the malice of my countenance; shoulder, foot and back but reminded of discontent, a physical manifestation of wretchedness.

The shadows of candles I prefer – ethereal in their portraits of minimalism.

This hour is to whom I belong; fingertips brushing, enticing the blemishes of skin. Now a hand, yes; defining the efficacy of neck, chest, torso, hips, loins. Not hand but arm, leg, the moist of passion. The elegance of breath – rolling as on the plains of sensitivity; encompassed but exposed. Bury me in the soils of furtive embrace; draw me near, covertly. Do you penetrate my evasiveness? My hand, yours. Flicker.

Lift me.

Flicker.

Guide me.

Flicker.

Yes.

Flicker.

We are.

Flicker.

One.

Flicker.

Yes.

Flicker.

Your lips.

Flicker.

Mine.

Flicker.

Yes.

Flicker.

Yes.

Flicker.

I love you.

Flicker.

Flicker.

Blackness.

My breath, a breeze – rustling curtain, cooling brow. My lover, alone.

Oftentimes I infer as to why I indulge the estrangement of my being. Though be uncertain the worth of my purpose, I seek not the qualities of its solitude; nor the cajoling of bitter irony; nor to hear resound banefully the disparity of isolation; nor derive the imposition of truths from those malices of defiance – resolved did I to transcend the immediacy of misery only to abscond rash prudence and envelope the definition of being alone. And I loathe such my contrived state of being, if misery be one at all.

There exists not the venue of escapism which I speak, mere illusion – the solitudes of denial.

The alone’s of estrangement are meant not to appease the poison’s of misery; nor precipitate the survival of a moment – death having bedded emotion, my quilt its accomplice.

My self, my worth betrayed.

Estranged.


© Copyright 2017 J A T. All rights reserved.

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