We expect God to be sympathetic to our pain, though He's never had any of His own.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Is it too melodramatic to swivel these eyes inward and proclaim myself on this broken throne an avatar of melancholy, demanding violent distraction? Summer's tedium is fully represented by these flies that insist on buzzing grossly about my house and light on my face which, I think, shows no sign of rot but then again flies have a more discerning palate for these sorts of tastes and I may have been rotting since May or even well before. When did this season lose its liberating jubilance and settle so begrudgingly into an era of misplaced aggression and malevolent lusting drips, contempt held close to the chest because of smothering sticky walls of sweating plaster and sodden bedclothes that weigh upon me as sheets of lead? A season of prison, that most feared prison born of my own doubting abstractions, a loss of inherent faith in my faculties created by cyclical nightmares aloft upon the morning's terror hence that I stagger with through the heated afternoon and drown again that evening in a wash of headed brine. Summer's end brought childhood shackles, but as an adult I am broken and choking and crave only the release of damp, moldering fallen oak leaves.