13 December 2011

Half-remembered Dreams

Two Amnesiacs are Beating Together

Where does the memory of me go? From second to following second, how do you place and then later, misplace it? How thin a thing these translucid accumulations of impression--so fleeting like a brief scent or a half-remembered dream. That you could not recall my name as you hours earlier pronounced it syllable by syllable, attached to the equivalent of a smile in your produced inner-voice. The features of my face become collected ghosts at the haunted house, hollowed by your howling thoughts. You follow my shadow and forget its generator, its a marionette with enough illusions as you've got imagination. You're distracted your space with forms on walls and sidewalks, over ceilings and wherever else light pushes my obscure doppelganger. Why is it so difficult to hold fast to that which I am, within you, momentarily?

What traces of me do you spare, if any? You can't see that I am still there--that, neither enough time has passed, nor enough experience to change me so suddenly. Drastically, do you dispel me--Brash and abrupt, you run and steady yourself balanced at perspectives so darkly transfigured, you'd not recognize your own face through that fog. I can't fight the thought of me--inside your head, its battery is governed by the venom you request it to produce. I am lost in your mind and can make no difference of height, distance, and width--I am without dimension there.

And you won't speak it. Its all nothing to you. Its gathered in ambience. You're weak against it and when you try, its all but fracturing to your nature. You won't tell me the specifics of what brings you there--you won't share with me anything but the parthenogenetic disdain and contempt hosted by the imaginary shades of conviction you so worship, thus concluding it a sin, to break that reverence. And if spoken, then I haven't heard it and I apologize for my deaf consciousness. I am no further free of blemish than you are. I listen to the words that probe you and instantly, supplant myself at their reception and mark the apprehension and defense necessary to endure such irritating sounds. I sound ridiculous against your silence.

As the universe expands, all matter within it, follows suit; and in expanding, all things grow further and further apart. Divergence leads to variety, and as the more variable we become, the more we break away. A separate species, later a separate genus, family, order, class, kingdom, etc. And at some point, like an insect to a plant, we'll stand similar. But remind yourself of me, of my not so deceased impression, take from it enough to rightfully evaluate who I am in the present and chance me the love you felt and somewhere still feel--We can evolve as one.

It makes me angry, but you're never around to see it--It brings me so down that I jump to the first chance to start fresh when you return with all your memory as you normally habit. I am as quick to forget you, as you are to forget me. So, I repeat, I am no further free of blemish. I forget about your ghost moods, and then in such a horrible pattern, shake into fragments when they return--One would think I had as much amnesia as you. This is why we must chase catharsis, if the attempt seems of interest. If we continually feel life within ourselves for one another, we must then continually remember who we are? If anything happens, it should happen in truth. Thus, if we're meant the future as our present, then we'll adapt, or perish in our failure.

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