Mar 7, 2008

Plagiarhythm

(EDIT: I've Fixed the old sidelinks to take down the old projects I no longer work on, and I've added some peeps I find attractive, er, good at writing. Feel free to solicit their services as surreptitiously as you have mine.)

Imagine watching a burning house, but the family is not trapped inside. Instead, they are staring at you from their lawn with huge eyes, unmoving. Their look is not angry, cautious, optimistic, downtrodden-- it is as vacant as their house and as empty as the fire will make it. Imagine them not advancing or retreating from you or the fire. They are static. Tiny hisses and mighty roars envelop their livelihoods, explosions rock the foundation of symbolic, albeit Pyhrric, victories of consumerism and memories and all they do is stare straight forward with blank-slate faces.

Imagine trying to describe this scene for years-- it is the reason you cannot perform, the reason you never learned instruments or painting or drawing or how to write correctly. It is the reason you never practiced basketball, the reason you faked injuries to keep yourself from the limelight, the reason you faked sleep before going into school with your mother and sister, the reason you didn't try despite being smarter than the people around you in classes. It is the reason for the tiny, inexorable failures throughout your young adulthood and the reason behind sabotaged relationships.

An imaginary family, in their complete lack of feeling, cannot bear witness to anything.

And goddammit, I had to get this down before the medicine came, I did. I had to, I had to, because they are here now and they are still unmoved though not underprivileged and they will watch and watch and watch only to find nothing worth seeing. I am moving, but no matter what it isn't.

I am moving, but their eyes follow me as though I am the reason they never felt allegiances, the reason they were alone before they were forced to be so. I am moving even though they can't, but all they see is running in place, avoiding the pitfalls and potholes by scarcely noticing them; avoiding the fire as though I set it, but I didn't, you see, you gotta believe me.

They remain as unconvinced as they are unstirred. I am tired and unaroused; tried and noncommittal. Inconsequential; just as alone.

No comments: