Please. Sit. Let us wax intellectual, dark, and deep, and fuck the promises to keep because feigning cavalier about the whole thing will saunter this shit right into whatever played out yet praiseworthy quote I end up pretentiously tacking on to the end of this post. No doubt it will be something from the Oscar Wilde catalog, but why waste time on absolutes, right? The chips doth fall etc.
I haven't been sleeping well for a while now. I don't know if it's the weather change or the fixed point in space that no longer affords me a glance back from the spheres of nothing and nowhere that in years long past called out to me. Daring me to walk that thin line between the twin chasms of comforting chaos in an attempt to glean some semblance of a place where I belong. Never once recognizing the obviousness of the whole endeavour because once you convince yourself there's gold in the water, it seems nothing short of drowning will pull your fists out of the riverbed.
For years I've been taking that walk but it's only now that I start to wonder if it's the delusion of finding something in nothing that draws me down that thin line, or is it that I'm afraid to turn away and find that there never was a line in the first place, or even perhaps that it's been so long that this colourless sound is all I can ever know. As you can imagine, none of these are the least bit comforting.
If it's the first thing, I suppose there is a quiet hopefulness to it, but ultimately it leaves one with the image of a broke drunk tilting an empty bottle those innumerable "one more time"s at 2 am, desperately clinging to the possibility of just one drop that got lost somewhere deep inside.
If it's the second, all those thoughts and feelings were pure fiction, a sad attempt to translate the absence of data. It means starting the research from scratch, assuming you can ever find your way back to ground zero. A tough pill to swallow, but possible none the less.
I don't want to even think about the third thing.
That said, I've opted for the second. I do not think I shall forget what I've felt up to now because as far as I'm concerned it's a fucked up sort of Schrodinger's Line, both existent and non-existent until I open the box. Maybe someday I'll have the courage but for now, I've decided take down the unblinking stare and begin drawing my own lines through life. Fuck knows what they will be, but at least they'll be something tangible.
Goodness, that's a lot of dull nonsense, isn't it? I did promise something though, so without further ado, goodnight and enjoy:
"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling." ~ Oscar Wilde
