Damned Door
Is this to be written? Like a curse unfolding, or in seasons of skill, I am not one lie. Where the divisions of “things” fade and shed blood, I am. Flesh consumes flesh, unrecognized, unnamed, pureed even. Beneath the senses lies an option, of focus. The original state, did it exist? No, the story lingers amidst synapses arrested and out of attendance. All stories do.
“Things” won’t explain themselves, suggesting irrelevance. Restlessness, boredom, the remnants of waste, all concepts of fate, and faith, rattle like shackles when the spirit escapes. Between these two walls lies every memory, all that I know. Cancelling the perception of void relieves the addiction to knowing. Is there a damned door I came through, or a door of the damned?
The fear fell upon me. It came not from within. It came from warm hands, the natural source. It denied its existence, and stole from my breath, moment by moment. The debt grew ominous, infecting me. It took root and paid rent, even postured at profit. Reason revealed it malignant and temporary, under decades of scrutiny. An ancient evil I’ve come to understand. Although the debt is unpaid, and pain remains, slavery is continually denied. I resent the burden of constant calls to dismiss each confrontation. Damn the mind’s inquiry motivated by scar and memory exhausted of utility. The human life form is overrated.
There’s none of me within these words written here. Though I assemble them in form and relation, toward truth through selfish experimentation, what can be gained? No clear motive visits me. Suffice it to say I’m acting out, whatever that means. I’m not special or important. I shouldn’t care when nobody reads this or appreciates it. A thread sinks through the layers of my lifetime, with every meaningless and random experience wrapped around it. Does it seek shelter from my consciousness? I’d sooner expect it evidence of my sum total conscious experiences, a slim grizzle invasion of an otherwise perfect attempt at suffering. But then, what voice whispers that story between my ears? Again, the human life form is overrated.
Woodchuck Pirate
aka Raymond J Raupers Jr USA