The light outside has waned to an inestimable smallness, and I would readily go blindly into the darkness. Risk dominates my life and thoughts. The world only turns in fragments and farces; somehow it forgets its past and continues, blood-drenched.
More so than ever, there is nothing worth the relation. Everything here is as normal, and small, and full of gaudy guys and girls. I am deciding upon which plane I shall exist, in my mind or my body, unguarded or fully reveling. My vision is decidedly gray and unchanging, and all seems welcome and free. My writing is always concerned with the truth hiding under the nature of things, yet I am not unambiguous myself. If the world is a wondrous prostitute, so it is. And if I have endeavored to endure my years as a sundog, so be it.
But my worldview grows daily in its purview, and in ways not always deemed to be better. I am so unapologetic and flatteringly grave that I should shut up and not convey any more than I have. In fact, this is how my journal entries read: if you leafed its pages and dog-eared its contents, you would be most disappointed at the lack of clarity. But I understand every word.
Why do I evade? This is the question on my mind. Why do I seek to be un-understood? I don't want you to know me too well, but -- dammit, I want you to try. I want myself to be worth the effort. And I twist and boil myself beneath a fading facade that deigns to be alive and allowed to do what it pleases. Thoughts of God and women fruitfully chase me, and I flee after them. I scatter myself like ashes, but the substance of my fire is untouched.
And it ends with the comforting notion that perhaps it's okay, even as it is; that while seeing the world from the sun is rather dark, I do like its point of view.
More so than ever, there is nothing worth the relation. Everything here is as normal, and small, and full of gaudy guys and girls. I am deciding upon which plane I shall exist, in my mind or my body, unguarded or fully reveling. My vision is decidedly gray and unchanging, and all seems welcome and free. My writing is always concerned with the truth hiding under the nature of things, yet I am not unambiguous myself. If the world is a wondrous prostitute, so it is. And if I have endeavored to endure my years as a sundog, so be it.
But my worldview grows daily in its purview, and in ways not always deemed to be better. I am so unapologetic and flatteringly grave that I should shut up and not convey any more than I have. In fact, this is how my journal entries read: if you leafed its pages and dog-eared its contents, you would be most disappointed at the lack of clarity. But I understand every word.
Why do I evade? This is the question on my mind. Why do I seek to be un-understood? I don't want you to know me too well, but -- dammit, I want you to try. I want myself to be worth the effort. And I twist and boil myself beneath a fading facade that deigns to be alive and allowed to do what it pleases. Thoughts of God and women fruitfully chase me, and I flee after them. I scatter myself like ashes, but the substance of my fire is untouched.
And it ends with the comforting notion that perhaps it's okay, even as it is; that while seeing the world from the sun is rather dark, I do like its point of view.
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