Saturday, July 3, 2010

I torment myself with editing.

If I could collapse into my fragile skin, I would do so willingly, yet despite my greatest attempt to shirk this hollow shell I remain seated upon a chair that’s peeling from age, wear and nervous fingers. This city sleeps restlessly, bombarded by angry children and greedy mobs at every passing turn and there’s a salty scent on the air. It’s unpleasant and it stings my nostrils, poisoning my already rotting mind. Open up. I squint and strain and listen to the pounding of blood in my aching temples as a strong breeze beats branches across my windowpane. Open up. This is truly the sort of place that may seep into every pore against your will. One will do anything to stem the pains of boredom, whether that be resorting to their habitual drink or writing to some unknown that would rather skim along to another clutch of words. That’s always seemed to me the problem with writing and the written. It bares your very soul to an unforgiving audience who seeks only to hear of misery or passion, unspeakables that were once contained only in bedrooms and at failing bedsides. It seems we are a desperate race that will scramble at the first scent of blood that comes our way, eternally yearning to watch a dying man in his final moments, searching for some gem of speech that will amount to quotation x from a book of inspirational prose which will finally unlock the alleged secret of life. Always searching for some exquisite reason to live... however, this isn’t daytime TV and I'm certainly not here to entertain you. I'm simply looking for some piece of soul that doesn’t seem existent beyond the border of a crisp white page and for this, I've already lost all decency. Open up.

This is all just an exercise in learning to live.

Modern love.

(The heart should not rule the head).
yet the body is ruled by the body instead!

Magnetic conversation speaks of times past. Prove your interest with the swaying of hips or the kisses of lips. (The day of the faithful is dead.) A quick fix as plastic as our time in the form of an outlandish gift brandished in the name of resentment. Or, perhaps an apology stained with bottled tears... Take your pick and blame the body, not the self.

We truly aren't animal!
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This work by Kimberly Dill is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at bleudaimonia.blogspot.com.