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Fucked Up College Kids File 556
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Chinese Water Torture
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I thought about her again today. Once more, my mind touched upon the hole
where my heart should be, and once more it remembered her... And yet, what
is to be remembered? There was nothing between us to recall, not even
anything intangible to carry with me. I carry with me the loose ends of
many ropes that I started but hadn't the courage to continue with, once
they bade that they leave my person and pervade to another. Some day, those
ropes will be my noose.
And then I remembered her again a little later. There's not much to
remember; just her face, sublime in its demure honesty...but that is All.
It never lasts for more than a few moments. To perpetuate the reverie past
that point is to leave the valves open too long, and draughts of bitter ash
inundate the senses and leave them in a burning coagulation, the pain of
which surpasses the hollowness of a blank mind. The heart is an insatiable
sponge and vacuum, but the mind may still hold thoughts with which to
entertain and occupy itself. Thoughts of resurrection, of retribution, of
life, of hope...and again the valves open and again must be closed.
Once more, her countenance struck across my fancy. It happens with such an
insidious acceleration now, as though an inexorable drop of water. As my
throat burns for repose from the drought, another and another drop yet hit.
Cruel, cold, impalpable drops of among the most tenuous and unsatisfying
waters on earth: those of desperation and an inhibited longing. Those of
the pallor that I see in a cadaverous caricature of a world, and yet I
continue on in hopes that she will seek me out.
Drip. And perhaps it should be wisest, all things considered and well
counseled, that I move on and look for another. But as I walk among other
possibilities, I can't find what I seek. A bovine mind can hardly be
countered effectively by a size C and tight jeans. I don't want sex; I want
life, and a companion to share it with - and yet I act as though I would
stand a chance at any of the three!
Drip. No, nothing capricious will do. Intimacy. A soulmate. A reason to
revel in victory and slump in defeat. A reason to feel. To feel all of the
things that I no longer feel with authenticity. A reason to Live. And yet,
instead i sit, perched helplessly upon the most desolate chair I could have
picked, writing with the most desolate words I could have used, and acting
in holistic futility in attempting to tie up my mind long enough not to
remember that I have nothing to remember.
Drip. When none understand you, and none truly care about the things
you're most passionate about, you needn't find anyone's condescension to
feel deprecated. Oh, but far be it! For here I stand, and even the
slightest breeze now makes me stagger like gale-force. So why, then, do I
still find solace in the sunset? In the crispness of brisk fall air? In the
magnificent and impermeable splendor of nature?
Drip. After all, these things cannot be carried with me. They are no
spoils of any journey, and they leave as fast as they come, much like Drip.
her. Little more than a quick inhale of her perfection, and then the sun
finished setting and she was gone. Does the sun rise again, though belated?
Perhaps it, too, wished for a break. It is inconceivable that fatigue would
not befall and permeate the Atlas of Radiance. Helios, too, may need his
sleep.
Drip. But I am more cognizant than I let on. Nature is truly immortal.
Humanity may pollute, it may rape, pillage, plunder...but withal, nature
will be there. As I write, yet another plant is creeping up and bursting
through our mighty asphalt and concrete sculptures of austerity and
sterility. Yet another FuckYou stems out from under our artificial earth. I
dare you to defy it, I DARE YOU!!!
Drip. Nature is our by far our elder, and in fact our very derivation. We
could not conquer it if we tried. Extinctions can occur each day, and still
it continues on. Some day, it shall all topple and so shall we. I scoff at
the feeble assertion that we are masters of nature; to disrupt, repress,
and destroy something is not to hold mastery over it, and neither should
this be mistaken for what it is. It is simply more patient.
Drip. We may use it and force its might and grandeur to defer to our
designs, but at our end, it will be its maggots and molds and fungi that
reap the benefits of our decay. All of our concrete phalluses will one day
sink into the earth and we shall be but a scar in mundane memory.
Drip. I often ponder what I so indolently seek, when I have nothing and
foresee less, still. I have learned, through lessons spanning years, that
the only falling into place in life is when you ultimately lose your
footing and fall into the desolate convolutions of the Black Widow's web. I
stare upon her red hourglass underside now, watching as each grain of sand
settles to the bottom, one.
Drip. by one in tandem. I should not have believed, in prior naivete, that
so much sand could move so fast, nor that such velocity could have a
nightmarish, narcotic effect upon my very soul. But still, I hear the
incessant swishing of the sand through the glass, and still I do nothing to
stop it. It doesn't stop, no matter how much I miss.
Drip. it. It simply continues away, remorselessly, perhaps even
unknowingly. And I remain, and likely shall for years after the last grain
falls, and the hourglass is inverted to prepare for the next fool. That
shall be my true test of time.
Drip. When the remainder of my existence is nothing more than finishing the
trek down the back of the hill. When every face Drip. is just another gray
orb, and every intricacy and meaning is lost upon my very mind...gone.
Drip. forever; and me just seeking
Drip. deliverance
Drip. by the hands
Drip. of death.
-agrajag http://www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Club/1610/Dep.html
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