Between Seed and Man

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
brooding

Submitted: November 19, 2011

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Submitted: November 19, 2011

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My consciousness was teeming with clutter after having undergone a process of rigorously intermittent succession. I lost my grammar. Structure was only an inconcievable facet of domination, inseperable from the slave. Consternation and despair I deemed fit to suffice for communication; reluctance had imposed itself tenaciously. Laughter was stifled and caste in sardonia; I was my own joke. I lost all will to synthesize. What fungiare to vegetables; the fly to the spider. The Spanish Inquisition stole my lampshade. For what? To club vikings, no less. The only thing I had at hand was an hourglass of smog in which my reflection was the sole citizen. Repitition was coercing and divulging in splintered patterns of transitory expression. Obstruction was at its peak and with it came a heaving static I feared was irreversible. A liquid rubix cube. A consequence of accumulated weaknesses; coupled with regret and suppressed by immobility. Don`t mention empathy. Empathy is a cancer that has not the power to kill. Consideration? This involves taking into account the whole; irreconcileable with naivety and ignorance. Danse, Macabre, Danse! By now you may be wondering, what actually happened. Well, nothing. That`s the problem. I can`t remember because I`m drowning in a vacuum and caught in a sphere lacking depth. Gyroscopic events, maybe. Catatonia takes care of these things. I was vexated by everything and hyper-sensitive to the labrynthine complexity of changing states and their tendencies. Tangential lines bereft of curvature for support. My sky of venetian blinds; my noose.
Mortifying times accompanied by degrading ideals.
The quest for profound thought is an inconsistent endeavour. Acceptance of personal incapabilities has made me merely capable of circumventing idle conversation. Ilistenonly tothe voices of printed syntax. If I so happened to surrender myself to omitting representations of convictions most find too strenuous to string together, resulting in comprehensible postulations; I feel, I wouldn`t be recieved as anything more than but a fragmental caricature product of footprints engulfed by the rip tides of all the voracious seekers that came before me. I`d like to say by now I have transcended theframe and surpassed my torpor; but I can hear it like the far side of an echo, I can feel it like a sudden drop in temperature; and I`m certain that it`s still dwelling latent and prepared for oscillation at any moment. I think, since then, I may have just come to terms with isolation; having found solace in pure contemplation. I am no better an orator; except in silence and in paper. In retention and inconsecration, there is relief. With execution,comes release. Although I am fully aware of the omnipotent effect persuasion has on victims of mistake, I am not going to admit this has all been a rouse. In which dimension a set-up so abhorrent as this arose is enitrely beyond my vision in wake. The pinnacle of a mirage.


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