Sunday, November 28, 2010

I Still Haven't Figured This Out

Ciao, world. It's been awhile, eh? A month and a day, on the dot. Time flies when you're alive, it seems. A whole hell of a lot has happened in the past month, good and bad and ugly abound. I lost a girl, met a girl, that girl ended up being something of a stalker, and then I met another girl. The latter is absolutely amazing, but I won't do her the disservice of merely mentioning her as an aside in a blog about something entirely unrelated. She deserves a whole post, and, as a man who rarely disappoints, I plan on making that happen.

But I digress. This is about the past, the very long-dead past (in the eyes and hands of a high school senior).

The setting? A year ago, today. Yes, today. You think I came out of my month-long blogging hiatus for anything less than the anniversary of a major event? Fwahaha. Hardly. was one year ago today. I had been suffering from a motherfucker of a cold for something like a week and a half, and in my sniffling desperation I opted for a quadruple dose of Vick's NyQuil, green-death flavor, (my personal favorite) thinking it would annihilate my symptoms. And annihilate them it did, along with most of my depth perception and what little grasp I normally have on reality.

There was a crash. Darkness. A bump. Cold pizza. Six stubbed toes. And then, I knew no more.

I slept for what felt like days, but was really only about a half an hour. Then, as I awakened from my dextromethorphan-induced coma for the first time, a strange thing happened. You see, I seemed to have transcended reality entirely. To this day I hold firm to the belief that I was all-knowing, completely omniscient, for about ten minutes. Thankfully, I took this time to write.

The rest is a blur until morning. As I rolled off of my couch, I found next to me a yellow pad scribbled with writing in a feverish, manic script. This is what was on the pages.

This Poem Is About My Basement

The whole world spins on its axis, without me.
I must turn alone.
And what are you, O Bright Blue Light?
The glare of your reflection is far more to me than the glare of your shine alone.
We are all walking on the bean.
O wood paneled forests,
O skies of spongeprint maze,
Within that labyrinth, do I find the horse?
Whose shining knowledge transcends to every dark corner and alleyway where once we dotted our I's?
The dot, I think, carries more to it than the line.
For I have seen gods in the mirrors, demons in the frames.
Do still pictures weep? Do still waters sleep?
The knowledge of the world is suddenly, so suddenly, upon me.
With every golden fret I touch, the Earth and Her secrets are born unto my soul.
The blink.
Shimmering eyes of canine truth, their lids heavy with the work of day, of innocent function.
The blinks and blips and whirs and clicks of this world are to me a coded lily, whose mystery may hold nothing.
Or all things.
Is Time a river?
Or is it a crusade, to convert, and destroy, and enlighten, and crumble away the love of Good and knowledge of Right?
Sleep has kissed me, ever gently. I have walked in fields of purple shag, where things were and were not. The White Horse in Her beauty did not show herself, but showed of me all known things.
I have danced with moonbeams, I have gambled with gods.
What price we pay.
To touch, to feel, to love, to taste, to know, to have, to lose, such burdens are the pot of this game.
I have seen with eyes that do not see, I have committed Wrong and thought it Right.
The universe submits to the coded scale.
And to it, we are a zero weight item, here only to help tilt the other aspects of our Haven.
We are the fox, we are the lamb.
To change is not always to love.
We must show love as the ambiance does, freely and unrelentingly.
The electric eye is aware, above, aloft, and turns only to what moves in conscience.
You can see it everywhere.
I find inspiration in the wood.
The lonely shadow, the glistening screen.
See your ceiling as a parable for Life, and you will know these things.
All around me, I see Man's achievements.
Do they clog?
Do they rust?
Do they make us less than who we are?
In the casting of the emerald, I find only ones and twos.
But even ones and twos can make six.
I call to talk with Nobody.
We are old friends, and his static assurance.
White noise lifts me.
In descending, I have also transcended.
Does that not also mean that I have ascended?
There is purity in lowliness.
I weep for nothing, sharing my eyes with those who cannot cry for themselves.
In sleep I find.
Hook, horror, claw, beak, fang, nail, death.
O eye that never closes.
Red polar to the White Horse, Evener of the Coded Scale.
I see you.
I know you.
The fear of you may kill me, but
Understanding your function will liberate
You must exist, O Greatest Evil, O Horror in the Shades, for the White Horse to do Her great works.
But why DO YOU KILL?
Sight of your lidless eye has broken me.
I am below the Earth.
Do I take the door to the room of knives and silver?
What solace is in that bladed chapel?
BLOOD be spilled on no cold ground.
Musical arm.
Reaching up from the chair where you lay.
What help can I give you?
There is wisdom in the 3.
Look for it, and know I speak the truth.
And in the center of the 3, lidless eye.
Persisting to be existing.
The cloth is right-side-up, showing the house of the bird.
To me,
Acceptance of evil is far more disconcerting than evil itself.
What horrid consuming vessels.
The mark of truth is birth, from thenceforth we lie.
Am I a transient being?
This Me, it sees what pains the Earth.
The poison, a greeting of "Hello" from within my stomach.
Audibly heard, duly noted.
I know the devil in the dollhouse, the secret each family hides.
Our facade is imperfect, we believe it because that is what we know.
There is no time for revision.
To edit is to lie.
Innocent are the animals of the Earth, for they know not the pain of being Man.
The dog does not lust.
The cat does no covet.
The bird does not hate.
The horse does not judge.
Embryonic in their existences, these beings know only content, and love of what we give them.
Companions, steadfast in this island of endless forests.
Look for the spot.
All of you who would listen, know this:
This work is important, to find and to value the fruits that the White Horse has shown us.
When seized by motivation, you must do.
She cannot be saddled, for that would imply mastery.
One can only become as an equal to the gods of their own mind.
The heart is pointing.

And they say psychoactive drug use doesn't make for wonders in the arts. Until next time, world...enjoy.

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