A
welter of woe and study hybridizing into something named me. The last year's
taught much; a narrative and personal change not consciously sought and brashly
insistent was the result.
(Egotism's
become inverted into externality, it seems to me, for most. An aqueous human
world, splintered by imposed political fear, biological directives eviscerated)
I'm
trying to reconcile the macrocosmic world without and the galvanizing,
condensing, black-hole symbols and signs within in the hope that the sprawling
mess of my mind coheres into a whole whose byword is "meaning." I'm
feeling very alive, O Mine Wee Muse of Fire and Curled Horn.
Ironic
that someone so bemused by meaning assigned through the arbitrariness of our minds
believes as axiomatic in a personal stop-go transformation pinned to a
Gregorian date... I turned forty. I had prefaced, excused, dismissed, exhorted;
whinnied and brayed; waltzed inelegantly around and defended to the teeth my
drinking until that time by claiming myself bound to constructed chronology.
I thought I was lying; now that is the strangest thing: I wasn't.
I don't know why except I do and cannot say it aloud because, as you say, I am
the one of broken promises (happily, nothing thrills me as much as dashing
absolute certainties in others through grand gestures grandiloquently given.
And so I say "ye of little faith" with a small knowing smirk inside
me).
For
I always knew nothing is for naught; this net caught all. Fished and found
bounty. And I am a born hoarder.
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