Saturday, April 20, 2013

Dormant Unhinged.

It is easy to think, as the process goes dormant, that the months will go by without incident.  But those days build up.  The items of memory tremble in anticipation.  The listless sway of the cords hanging from the blinds sync up.  The blades of grass align together as though there is a wind from nowhere.  The night terrors adorn you exponentially and fighting the mirror brings on the wish to have the right fears.  To not be nervous as the light nears.  The want to lift the curse stalks through the woods the same way the curse does.  Your sexuality is a drunk.  Your sobriety is a monk.  You question why you are questioning. Trying, trying, trying to await the tragedy that must be coming.  There must be, after all, some reason for all these muscle contractions.

They're all still there.  The dormancy exists and tremors seem distant but that doesn't negate your personality history.  They're there.  You wake up in a different world.  The earth is seen through the window.  You are not on it.  Those thoughts and actions and wants and needs and aspirations and sorrow and methods and dreams and shadows and sounds and images and footsteps and the end are all behind you:  following.  Moaning, they've taken on a different shape.  You lurch up from this inaction to get moving again.  They're there.  But they're changed now.  They are so different from the light inaction bouncing around your skull.  What you thought was wrong is a fantasy and what this is behind you is also a fantasy.  You're moving on and the things behind you are getting further stupid and losing.  You are getting better.  And they'll help you to try.  Though what you are is a construction, what you continue to be is of that construction.

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