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Rated: E · Preface · Philosophy · #1836076
Shock has finally wore off and actuality has set in. But is it too late?
Descending from my chair, I can't really feel myself sitting there. Another drag off my cigarette, my eyelids wet. For some uncanny reason, I'm upset. I don't know if it is this perpetuating reeling; My heart is being pulled towards my stomach, churning at a sensational rate. Or maybe it's this alluring fate; the inevitable escape into non existance. I am struggling to survive yet willing to die. I am just one more consumer, one more piece of the problem.
My name is Aristotle, Napoleon Bonaparte, Martin Luther, Andy Warhol, Hitler, Jesus Christ, Lady Gaga, and Matthew Mann. I am humanity. I am what takes and takes, yet gives and gives. I am breathing, taking generously as much oxygen as I please, and therefore I am living. I am taking what is not officially mine. To many others, it's okay. However, for myself, this guilt lingers and festers. It eats and eats at me.
Oh, what are we to do? We are staring at our fate in the mirror and yet we still can't see it clearly.

Amidst the dreary day, in between every grey cloud and tresspass, there's a toxic gas wailing it's atonal blues, darkening the pains and distorting the hues. Electronically, we are metaphysically severing our own cranium. Somehow, these machines are always accurate, always correct. An algorithm that can always detect every deep, dark, hidden secret. While it can't emote, it assists you; Maybe perfecting you but actually enabling you, betraying you.
Now, this is not entirely deplorable, not always cordial, but constantly assuring, blurring every thought and dream. It's exposing everything, recreating reality from overwhelming realities. Inspiration is no longer unique. If I could only thrive off the bleak surrealism that has become all too real. I am just the test rat forver running on a spinning wheel.

I don't expect you to be intrigiued by my poetic conspiracy and constant rambling. All I tell are of tall tales of big whales and lion's tails; Just another folklore in the forlorn eye of desperation. My compositions are filled with those, and all disclaimers (well, of course). Oh, the old wives tales of black widows trying to find their meaning in life, battling the constant strife. Did I murder my husband with a sharp enough knife? She has begotten the damnation of her kin and then they will repeat the process again.
Oh, I know. This is a film noire. The main character is the flawed protagonist forced to explore inanimate objects for fifths of whisky and some sort of clue. He hides under his fedora, and remains mysterious underneath his trench coat. He feels the need to type meaningless bullshit obsessively on rainy days and never really knows what to say. He realizes all of the people around him keeps reassuring themselves "I'm okay." All the while, he knows, the reassurance is rooted from a lack of assurance. He realizes his chain smoking has become a problem and has beome increasingly reliant on machinery and government aid. He longs to march to the forefront of a crusade, using his voice to rise up the masses.
He seems rude yet is misconstrued. He wants to speak eloquently but his thoughts get jumbled and then they tumble down to an excrutiating hault, becoming another minor fault in his brain. These days, it seems like these faults are adding up. The days are starting to become more confusing and everything seems reversed. Like yesterday is actually tomorrow and the day before that is just lost in eternity. And he knows that this is all absurd, that this is just another stray thought, another forgotten word. He is paralyzed by his own nerve.
He wants so badly to solve this tangled web of mysteries. From conception to demise he will forever despise his entrapment to humanity. He is one of them and they are him, wandering for unanswerable questions. This is just another tide, calculated by descimals and devides. Another "what if?" in a series of "whys?"
Descending from his chair, he can't really feel himself sitting there. Another drag off his cigarette, his eyeids wet. For some uncanny reason, he's upset. He's deluded in the belief that another drag will somehow ease his pounding heart. I mean, it's a start.

As resources start dwindling, insanity won't be such a peculiar abnormality. As we become closer to actuality, we threaten the very structure that binded us to blind us. "Quite a conundrum", he mumbles under his breath.

© Copyright 2011 Halo Ditchivite IV (writerblock at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1836076