I always pictured months as shapeless living beings. Nebulous, inchoate, almost embryonic phantoms, each with their own, genuine identity. They fend our saneness with amaranthine walls, and lock us in a one-way intricacy where we are told to paint our happenstance - still all I can do is smudge and blemish what is now a stifled speck in life's everlasting holler. Its voice is prodigious, though its breath sounds noxious. My blissful unawareness of my eventual fate hatches my dreams into blatant nebulas, ghostly entities who cradle me in their umbrage and trick me into feeling infinite.
I always pictured months as ethereal, dainty deities. They own us, yet we conceal such truth and believe otherwise. How foolish of us! Us, the human race, veneering our evidential flair with obloquious forgery. Fiction, fiction, fiction. We bow to it and master its preposterous outcome. We impersonate gods and bluff ourselves into idyllic liars.
And meanwhile, deep inside our deepest dreams, time laughs. And it drinks up the remains of life's noxious and prodigious breath as we, safely cradled in its nebula, are tricked into feeling infinite.
Addah Monoceros.
No comments:
Post a Comment