Gloom of now

All too often we find ourselves stranded on desolation road.  With a typewriter, but with no pages onto which to type.  Laughing at invisible humor, mumbling over old memories and anecdotes heard many years ago.  And it is true that gloom smells and tastes just like doom.  But on a day, sooner or later, a ship will pass, it must.  On that day of feeling ecstasy and seeing rainbows—each person met will be a seraph, all light, all good, all pure.  Oh yes, I adore the moralist, the brave, the tall—all those nonhumans, all those not like me—a pale mirror image of human non-satiation and hollowness.  Nobel intensions are pills placed on all of our tongues, but we spit out, and act out our avarice.  We praise the figure of Moloch, to him it is that our actions pray, and it is because of him that neither one of us can look the other one in the eyes.

It is easy to juxtapose the good and the bad, the right and the wrong, the apt and the inapt, the proper and the black cat.  All history-books of bias, all statues of vain, all monuments of human intellectual meltdown—all true elegies, but read in the tone and tongue of heroic prose.  All years, all places, all people, we were made to remember in school, sooner or later, reappear in the form of an embezzler.  I was taught to love, I was taught to hate, an oxymoron that troubles my thought, confuses my fait, and slowly disintegrates all meaning of my life up to this date.  I need to build myself a raft, put my need and sense aside.  Somehow I think, I know, that beyond this gloomy day awaits an illuminated shore.