Thursday, August 02, 2007
A pair of chopsticks, with dancing flames for crowns. Doused with a practised flick of my wrist, that deft motion, belated shock - this is the living body's capacity for regurgitative memory, this untapped power of the unconscious. I looked at the two turgid wooden frames: the larger of them cradled yesterday's fallen, as if asleep, the other immortalized mortality in print, and I felt as if both of them projected a misrepresentation of life, and therefore the truth - the soul cannot be recaptured. Death remains triumphant. Only one-sided interpretations and faded impressions are left behind, wisps of ghosts and shadows of time. And of course, the ones who loved, and were loved in return. I have much more to say, but I can't. I shouldn't anyway, so not allowed.
Until the next notch on the wheel, the turning of the screw, where it all begins before it can end. I don't suppose it'll ever get any easier.
she procrastinated @ 03:19 |
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