dolorous interludes.

rouse me from slumber where my old love lay.

Now we venture into the heart of mediocrity- amidst the throng of civility. and see nothing to live for nor love. What about the short-lived and ephemeral that is so precious and valuable, a mark of only the tragedy they entail; tragedies to further intensify the brunt of being, The inscrutable desire for heartbreak, for genuine elation, for epiphanies, merely for every emotion humanly attainable- that was what I lived for prior. But really, did you suppose I could live in the instant forever? I cherished, no, savoured every second, and let the moment perish. Did you think I was incredulously selfish to have wanted the world and all its ills- those scenic peaks from where I dropped-free-fall and at rock bottom shrugged the dust off my conscience only to scale that wildly arching mountain once more?

No, I no longer can live as such and I haven’t for awhile now. Some days such as these, I sit by the window watching rain fall from the dreary skies and I wish for the warmth of a burning flame- I sometimes miss the intensity of youthful wilderness and foolery that was very conveniently attributed to carpe diem, but the memory of such rebellion- against rules set as stone in my heart, against the logical analysis of wayward destruction and ruined chances that my journey might leave me to bear, keeps me buried under my covers where the warmth of security and safety provides a home for my frail heart.

I eventually did learn to reconcile my love for century old written art and to live in quiet obedience; but I also did later learn that my growing desire for all things good and nourishing meant my declining passion for what I thought was my subsistence in life, and my increasing disdain for values and false notions of humanity that they inspired and preached. Perhaps words are truly weak interpretations of life.

It is not living the life with undulating emotions wrought with desire both burning and painful that I miss, it is the fizzling of a staunch dream and passion that is unbearable. These days, I find myself despising it for its lack of ephemeral value, its casual convenience at which people spew without thought, and for its lethal ejaculations that so often break another’s spirit.

Its beauty still mesmerises me as a work of art, but its nuances often take a different form when conveyed between individuals or when construed personally- its effect so damaging it could leave one battered at the end of the day.

posted by voyeur @ 10/26/2005 01:35:00 PM