Some parallel to "conceit" takes over when the body feels at too much ease. Words drop jumbled on the floor and they dribble into the hollow of the coffee mug. Halfway gazes. Incoherent emotions. Warm blooded that we are, action-packed days feel closer to my type; dull urban experiences are just the right ruin for the psyche. "wrong, wrong, wrong..." is the chant through the minutes following this realisation; then I will hunt for a new disease to take over, some infection to override however things have been, some insignificance to push aside the other insignificantnesses of the day to the seams, so that I can fashion a wholly-new blot of insignificantness on my day's fabric ("Fabrique", I like to go French) and secretly wish that it were to turn gold.
Something rushes, something dies, something resigns, something meanders through, something loathes, something that doesn't reek with stench of existential bromides like at present. Whatever it takes to get the groove back ON; shoulds and should-nots; browns of nature or synthetic blacks; light and darks; shades of gray; pestilence; petulance; corruption; kingdom come.
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