want and its denial. the be all and end all of all there is. fat old lady, lets sing well into oblivion. just to make it interesting, during the ride, it’s good to imagine all that jazz surrounding you. in all its glory and non-existence. all that. between the plausible and im-s, there is such decay. a pile of rotten carcasses. a single spot taking centre-stage. thunderous applause begets egotist drivel upon the already besotted disinterested grey. and the fuckall smile to pass through. moronoxyic.
who do you think a fool and more? misplaced faiths upon beauty and wallets over people, feelings and a lasting perilous journey. standing, holding the urn with picked out pieces of the shoulder, the ear, the ankle, the spine, and whatsitsname. five in all and the rest ashes and milk. kneeling down and breaking. such pain, what work of beauty that, the pain, the essence of it. misguided slander interjecting part phony inebriation and part disgust. trust and faith, an altogether different issue. how many subtexts must i grapple with, until i reach an end, my only want amidst the din. a semblance of silence if you may please. yes. a minute would do as i cut away.
so centrifuged. silence, music, ignorance, the only remedies en-route to some form of recuperation. and there is the bit about loss of a sign board leading back to misdirected purposes, stanzas and paragraphs. if there be a lack of coherence and continuity to the train, the words merely reflect an uncontrollable non-linear. i go as if to prove to self, only to get lost in the process. “as if” being the operative words here.
you chaos, i say to you, you are not so chaotic afterall. you are just deceptively so. i have figured you out. you have alluded the circular theory to me so long for my lack of an explanation otherwise. you are deeply cruel, a cringing scratch on the wall, repeated , till the paint wears off the faces. it is an incidence of significance that the strands of life are helical. even as i move forward, every twelfth month i seem to be at the same spot but at some distance from it. that must be the pitch of my life, its pace. not thirteen since most of us do not believe in it. but twelf.
what is the purpose of man’s existence? as it turns out, a-myth, it is indeed twelf. so now, there is no reason for me to be foolish.
instead, i find peace in the morose psychopathy of being.
