Friday, February 19, 2010

the waking

The world is quiet, it has always been quiet. Since the end of the beginning, there was only noise; Terrible, terrible noise, ringing in my ear. It never stops, never stopped. Did it just stop? No, it never stops. The colors flash so quickly, creating thousands of new spectrums, burning themselves into my non-existent corneas. Feelings and emotions blow through my mind, like a tidal wave. I’ve experienced more joy, grief, happiness in this moment than could ever be possible. A poetic death is useless when the world has ended within and without.

It happened in a flash, or was it the longest second in history? It was an eternity of bloodshed, contained within the single, decisive event. It was a decade of tears and sobbing fear, compacted within a strand of hair. It was the crunching bones and wounding blows of a million wars in the press of a button. It was the world and it ended. It never happened, not until it did.

Tomorrow I will wake up and I’ll get dressed, go to the store and find that I’ll have wasted myself upon the minutes of passerby’s. I will think on petty things like the weather or how I’ll make it to a job I hate or how I’ll have my bland pseudo-European style lunch served, with or without the basil. Thoughts of what I’ll wear when I get out of my dead end job and go to a dead end ritual of self-loathing and peeking observance of other’s happy lives. I’ll drown myself in the pith of my yearning persona, which strangely tastes like cheap lager.

I’ll sling myself home, swaggering down the street to my dead end neighborhood, to my dead end apartment, which is just filled with nihilist possession, meaning nothing at all. A four room, high end living space which anyone would love to have at the price I rent, but there’s nothing. These walls do not define me, for these walls are bare. They may not define me, but I do feel so bare. I’ll spend time leafing through a catalogue of fine living, making me wonder what color drapes define me as an individual, or what sort of coffee table makes me look like a minimalist, but also a confident. For a time, I’ll do this and then walk away; as if the time spent committing to the want of purchase only behooved I cease my temperament.

I’ll crawl into my king size bed, staring at the empty ceiling, fantasizing about the wondrous dreams and possibilities that I could have in this magical world of fluid creation and destruction. A world in which I could be anything I wanted and everything I ever could have hoped to be. I hope for a horizon and a crested being standing at the edge, resplendent in the light backlighting him or her, a figure of a savior, an amazing being who descends in rays of holy precipice and divine power; Someone to cling to, hold to, never leave.

It is then I realize my alarm is ringing, a buzzing noise, destroying my concentration and obliterating my hopeful dream, my reach for a pleasant life. It is then I realize it is half past four in the morning, so I resume my day, as if it never had ended, nor ever begun. In fact, it never did, I had no closure to my morning within and without. Desperation has parched my tongue and I feel dry and cracked, like man mummified before his due period. Out of bed would I crawl and don my working armor, but not today. Today the world ends, with fire and brimstone. The haunting voice of a wailing banshee does not account for the destruction before me. Today I close my eyes. And the universe explodes.

Good death, there’s morning all around.