Switching costumes

This damn thing is an absurd joke.

Oh not again. Not again.

I’ve seen myself a thousand times and I have not changed a bit.

One day it will all end.

The ideals of a frightened boy: all smashed.

One day it will all end and the ideals will not save me.

We were made broken.

Now, as then, and tomorrow again.

And again.


Listen. I bore myself. And you too, I hope.

It has all been said.

What am I clinging to but broken space?

There is no substance here but hollow ideals.

And yet hear my cry: ‘Give me a war! Give me a goddamned war, and something to die for! Give me an ideal!’

I am an unbalanced pretender. And I always knew it. A goddamned unbalanced pretender, shooting a shot now and then, taking aim and shooting a shot now and then, to tip the scale in my favour.

Tip the scale, tip the scale. I lean too far I must tip the scale.

A pretender. Pretentious. A pretentious pretender pretending to be pretentious: pretentious squared: meta-pretense.

I am not even able to fail with grace. Not brave to fall off the measure. Scrabbling and clamoring to tip the scale. I’m sliding and falling off and I am not courageous. I do not dare…I do not dare!


Have you ever seen the beautiful truth, and had failed to act?

I have.

And don’t say at least I was aware enough to see; that most are too calloused to be aware.

Don’t tell me I should feel lucky to live; that most are never born.

Pretenders squander awareness; cowards squander life.

Oh, that I could BELIEVE! In something, in anything. To be calloused enough to not see, but to believe!

Oh, that I could fail to see, and truly believe!

But I have seen. And have done nothing.


Do you understand my words? Don’t make me spell it out.

The pretentious switch costumes until nothing of substance is left.

I need a war! – (to fall off I do not dare)

If you don’t get it….then get out!

You have been spared, and my envy of you knows no limits.

It knows no limits.

I need a war! – (to slide right off I do not dare)

This balance has tipped and I’ve shot my shot and my envy knows no limits.


One day this will all end. This ideal will not save me. Now, as then, and tomorrow again.

I dare not fall so I shall pretend. To wage war that I may believe, and callous my soul to regain relief.

I’ve shot my shot.

Oh that I were as calloused and deserving of life as you.

I walk towards the dancing light

If there is no light, then there is no dark.

I have fallen into the dark; I have become despair, doubt, infinite dread.

The dark says, ‘Turn your back on the light, there is no hope there; the closer you are permitted to come to the light, the further you will inevitably fall. Stay here, on the bottom, for in the end, all is doubt, fear, death, nothingness.’

The dark says the light is but an ideal, one that you can never reach, and thus one that will always fail you.

And I answer: ‘If light is an ideal, then you must be as well. To turn my back on one demands I turn my back on the other. You say it is folly to choose the light for it is an ideal, but then surely it is also folly to choose you.’

And the dark shudders, and spits me from its maw.

In the distance a tiny light flickers.

Caught between two ideals; I walk towards the dancing light.

Infinite fear

Fear to fear to fear to fear.

If sentences could readily bend,

I’d twist that one end to end,

To illustrate the following truth:

Fear brings fear in an infinite loop.


Instead a daily dose of wretched I shall permit –

Of living life choked by anxious threat;

Of more than words bending end to end –

Of wretched routine from my trembling mind slip.


For I envy the skies of a cloudless day,

Into such clarity I breath clouds of gray,

To darken and slow the world that I may,

Reveal the links that could bring me pain.


Take my word, on sunlit morns I pray for rain.

For my eyes are sensitive to the sun’s rays;

I am jealous of the green and life the sun feeds,

Jealous that I don’t vibrate at such vital speeds,

My vitality lost to the rot in my rotten seeds.


This I know: fear and pain are my eternal due.

For I choke clear air with a deathly hue,

Thereby ensuring the truth remains true:

That fear brings fear in an infinite loop.

Epitaph

There she lay. Clearly at peace. Unburdened of 93 years of life. A warrior; strong, resolute, stubborn, beautiful. Were those eyes to suddenly open, it wouldn’t have surprised me. Were she to beat death, it would simply draw from me a knowing smile.

In life there are two options: to crawl into the past and die there, or to boldly journey, head high, through the perpetual present.

Nanny: her example transcends her death.