Under the Influence

30 November 2009 § 2 Comments

Some greater purpose had come about in the form of educating himself in the ways of those whom had arrived after him, and the dim light in the hallway accented this philosophy in a way only rave parties had in the undistant past. It’s the occasion to play catch up on the theories he had accrued and used to his benefit in arguments with ministers and scholars up to then, time to make them more significant, more than the original ideas that first presented themselves to the writer – before the publisher took hold, before the professors and critics – all failures in their fields – laid foundations of doubt in place of concrete, deconstructive asceticism where the temples would be tombs, and with this persistence their failures were less prodigal.

The manuscripts that populated the desk, the kitchen counters, the bookshelves were icefalls he would never attempt to climb, even as his eyeglasses shifted light from one side of the page to the other when the sun distastefully entered the room where he stood, leaned over the billiard table, elbows dusted blue, or sitting on the floor, back against the intricately carved to be dreadfully uncomfortable cabinets and shelves that dominated three walls. Late afternoon, the bleakest era of any calendar, when neither day or night are promised to arrive or remain, and the entire world appears to be a dream of Midas, and all that is precious is cheapened to the likes of bumper stickers and foul-smelling candlesticks.

And it was in this light the spirit of God flourished, its braggadocio a collage  highlighting man’s hypocrisies, magazine cutouts crayola-d to innocent perfection, photographs of Ferris wheels and correction pen marks drawing Valentine hearts with practiced hands. No moral man could question the good He had on us, and only the Wicked would appeal his judgment.

And it is with this conviction that ‘free will’ is incarcerated by a judge and jury that both have insurmountable issues of masochism, galloping around the concrete jungles built for them to find a power to submit to, after dark, when the world is not watching because it is partaking in its own self-torture, having shrunk to the demands of the Day, cozy in their blankets and chains, behind locked doors for the moment some stranger might wish to seize the Things that have been acquired, and no fear is greater than losing the Things we have worked for, deserve because we bought them, and Own them. It would be a crime to take them away, and often is.


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