Is what I am currently listening to. Off of the "A Single Man" soundtrack, introduced to me by my friend Sarah. Lovely.
I think the world is a dreadful place for a person who can put it all in perspective. Who has that horrid, horrid stride backwards to peer into the glass window that our purple little noses are mashed up against, as they have been, so that it seems not like glass at all. And then the shooting line emerges: they all, one by one and in complete and strict time, fall into neat little geometric figures and are free from life's obscenities. Free, but utterly dumbfounded at the numbers and progressive evil that has wrapped itself within the confines of a pristine haven. Free, but left to witness. It is much akin to the situation of a survivor of a shipwreck: the living all are set deep within their lifeboats to view the spectacle of a thousand dreams, ten thousand families, one-hundred-thousand could-have-beens-but-will-never-be's float and bob in the fireworks of a groaning and failing mechanism. With quick yet mercilessly un-hastened time, the familiar is sent to its grave in an unknown recess of pivotally subdued hues, black, black, all they see stretched in the corners of their unforgiving and opened eyes. There is no time for grieving the past in the situation, for the impending need for survival among strange people and even stranger seas rears its reality and the grieving is left to the ultimately surviving, to tell their stories with a smile by day but to weep incessantly by night, 'neath their sheaths of white and grey strands.
Thus is the mind of a free one. Whilst held captive by society's delightful grasp and light show of "happiness," there is not a worry for a blind eye. Once the reflection is clear and the glass has been voyaged away from--perhaps a good 4 feet is all it takes?--the shock ensues painlessly, sans a twinge of numb or pain. Then is the world, in all its former and gaudy splendor, laid out like a feast of poison grapes, morphine apples strewn about by the hand of a great being on satin asbestos.
Then we are left to be shot; bullets of crystalline ignorance encrypt a Braille aphorism upon our beaten backs.
I cannot unhinge my ankles enough to dare this. But I can, at times, catch a lachrymose view of it all. I feel as though I am atop Mount Everest itself, sore, exhausted, weeping without a slight manner.
I really do find reality quite interesting. Then I must step back into it, and return to the duties of Spring.