Flow of Consciousness ..No Results and No Paragraphs17:44 Apr 01 2012
Times Read: 1,097
Attrition has always been routine for me. But my adherence to it, and the desire for the personal absolution that follows, are not dynamic. They require no focus and no force of will to sustain. There is no scriptural reminder needed here. Instead, the concept of being punished for my "sins" is something spun seamlessly into my being. It has always been that way as far as I can tell, and I believe it was born from the desires for perfection and approval. The parents of these children is what seems to be a need, and it's name is certainty. Therein is the proof of the impossibility of it all, as certainty about anything is wholly unattainable. And even if it were, could I reasonably measure the depth of my doubts? A man can only be as objective as his subjectivity allows, and we are all creatures of our senses. Is it possible that the layers never stop forming? Am I still, despite all else, that same fifteen year old kid I remember from not so very long ago? The one who slashed at himself, tortured his friends and family, and sustained a level of misery so profound that even he became lost in it, just so that he could feel something instead of nothing at all? Even then I lashed at my imperfections ferociously, and without regard for health, all in the name of murdering what I saw as my weaknesses. And where did that fool come from? Was I, at that age, merely an extended expression of that six year old boy, laying on the concrete floor of his bedroom in the ugly brown house on 30th street, holding his uncles empty pistol to his head and clicking, clicking, clicking with no appreciable result? If there was a emptiness born that stretched it's hand outward into my future, perhaps it's origin sits there. Or maybe not. It's entirely possible that none this can be traced or mapped in any logical way. I could be, that just as John Malkovich said of the mind, "..it doesn't work, Frank." In all of this though, the goal was apparently met. I was the center of my universe, and realize that I always have been. Hadit staring longingly at Nuit; this is the role I'd grown accustomed to. Falling in love with characters in my nighttime world only to wake to an empty room. My lazy solipsism had been challenged and disproven. What is left still, I feel, is the echoing voice of that little boy, shadowing every motion and reflective thought. Sensing an end to the story he says only this to me, "You did it all your own way, how does it feel, Matthew?" I need new dreams. In this day, my life is actually pretty good. I take care of myself, mind and body. I work and go to school, and am surrounded by those who apparently care for me. Things are on the upswing, and I'm generally happy. Maybe it's true that we are never really anything but what are in that exact moment. I don't pretend to get it anymore.
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