Tuesday 29 December 2009

Milk Of Amnesia - A curiosity

I am pushed aside by my own self, onto myself. The slow and deliberate collapse of an old frame built upon muddy soil. But what hope of rise shall I have? For the depths of memory have always been muddy. How can one even dare to dream such lucid stuff as to create coherent structures of thought and consciousness out of the brittle pieces of a turbulent, yet palpable, past? It is a dance, and the rhythm incarnate is the sleepless turmoil of one's own wrinkled pillow. What a ballet insomnia makes out of our midnight hours. We are the architects of our own undoing, and we plan our destruction with diligence. We choose the alchemy of our poisons, and in measured drops we feed ourselves teaspoons of Aqua Toffana. Some give it a form, others give it a sensation, most give it a name, and all quake under masochistic pleasure of self torture; a slow demise!

I gave it a form, and soon came a sensation, and the name; it was all so natural. A body followed, a smooth skinned, gracefully articulated body, the fragrant aroma of soft hair, of flowery skin, of sweet breath, intoxicating in its breathing. Big wet eyes that stare one down and upset even the stillest of hearts and engulf all tentative, if any, of resistance.

I drank! And felt elated as this sweet death rushed inside every alcove. How the feeling of warmth became present even in the utterance of the name of the thought of such actions. The silent fall of reason, and the sinking into a muddy bank of memory.
I drank! And knew that all other reality was of no importance , that truth was suspended and hollowed of its meaning. The dissolution of the ties of rationality into a boiling sea of equivocal nightmares. The hands of a thousand tribulations were clawing at my drifting body.
I drank! And feared the waving of this ocean, the gushing tide and swirling whirlpools. How far have the currents pushed me? Was there a shore to begin with? The waters soaked me up.

An immense feeling of dread and loss soon followed. It was barking at the feet of my thoughts which were all trailing directionless into some sort of terrible void. A decomposition of everything that held in place the great obelisks of meaning and understanding. With that the rip of the very fabric of self.
All the colors seem to run and gather into deep pools and foamy rivers, blast of sulfurous fumes marked the spots were the very ground failed to be. The stars whirled into primordial shapes as if trying to imitate that first chaos, the geometry of perfection mirrored into the blazing ashes of our own personal doom.

After that the silence that remains is the single witness and friend and companion. Sleep and peace and silence settle like a fine film of frost on all that was animated. After the descent into death and combustion the hushed chill of motionlessness is all that is left.