Sunday, September 12, 2010

91210

Dreams have stopped, or escape from my head before the light of dawn, and leave me alone with circular thoughts that barrel towards the depressing and all that was lost, swirling downward until at last it reaches the end were no thoughts can exist because that final thought represents the final action from whence life grows no more. To speak in sadness is to push away all but the tortured readers who's draw to the macabre will surely bring upon you more torture, either from sadist abuse or a common understanding of the all encompassing futility of happiness, like a death wish reaffirmed by a fellow dead soul. So, speak small, speak chatty, speak about how pretty the Easter egg is painted, forget that the egg is now many years rotten, a pink and yellow sugar coated throwback to a delusion of happiness from the tatters of false promise called childhood. So, we speak like children, we speak in irrelevance, we speak into a sea of mindless self indulgence that keeps us in an embryonic bliss of chatter and allows time to pass a little less painfully. But we know this already, we choose delusion, and for us not lucky enough to have a grand delusion, we find ourselves in a boat above this chatter-sea, we see the lighthouse, and unlike others who avoid it, we row towards it maddeningly with tears in our eyes knowing there are terrible jagged rocks there. All one can hope for is to find another on those dark shores, and there will sit the silence of two, too afraid to speak to each other for fear their words might kill...

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