Pain, Desiderata and the Wind

This is a piece of prose from a personal low point.

Pain is the key, of course; the thing that congeals all the thoughts and all the flashes of light and mind and lets them flow down through the sinews of the head onto the medium. Changed, now; once hide, once papyrus, once paper, now screen; ephemeral, losing constancy, losing place and losing time and touch. I wonder, when I write, what will happen to me when I can watch films without the wince of hurt, endure spring without the clenching fury, and simply stroll about the world without averting my eyes in fear of myself and the pain. I wonder. I wonder. Still, there doesn't appear to be much that can be done, realistically; not much at all without delving into the dangerous realm of fantasy.

Not pretty, that; reveals far too much, solves far too little. Not much elsewhere to go, of course, and that's why we find ourselves there again and again, don't we?

Living in the small and dank world, seamy and nasty, that somehow can lose all vestiges of 'nice' because it's designed and distilled to calm the nastiest realms of the mind. Blood washes clean, there; or better yet, blood washes into a filmy red goo that works best when viewed in front of a fiercely grinning set of teeth which moments before ripped it unbidden from the soft and safe paths of its daily haunts.

Blood, then. There will be blood! There will be blood. No time left to change the color of the history of the thing; no time left to save the course of the ship that sails the mind. Blood is the answer, blood is the fantasy, blood is the panacea that will set all right again, or more precisely, set all that is wrong in a piercing shrill of pain into the fore; into the position from which all else is judged, and bring it into the light of the world red and dripping. Then, ah, then, it is not for what is wrong to defend, but for what is right to cry forlornly in the wilderness, not for what is right to stifle choke and kill what might have been, and what could be.

Wrong, its mandibles dripping red life, teeth set in rictus grin, can stand up above the wasteland of the square and shout its triumph to the heavens, and until what is right can once more gain the pinnacle, why, then, there is no reason to worry! No cause to fear. No cause to wince and turn aside; no cause to grunt in soft and secret triumph over what doesn't hurt- locking what doesn't hurt away behind walls of what does, because what hurts rules; control, they say, and polite intercourse, discussions of trivialities and twist and turn and hide your self, and don't don't don't ever ever ever say what's meant, for pain will follow.

But can they be believed? Pain follows, no, or leads, really, for it is always there, and there is no possible path taken which will slip its bonds, now; too much time, and too much wasted to say with certe and sure, "there went I; here stand I now and all is well." There is too much darktime accumulated below the lip of the wall; if one stands on the precipice as is true from day to day and looks down, arms waving in attempt to maintain the lofty perch, there is a dark mass growing, now, and it is dark on both sides of the wall. The path grows sharp; the purchase grinds bladed laughter into my soles, through my useless boots of reason, and I feel the blood waiting within. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting...

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